


Dead Drop

by Guede



Series: Dead Men Tell No Tales [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Amorality, BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Stiles, Bondage, Chastity Device, Comeplay, Crack, Dark Stiles, Dom/sub Undertones, Duct Tape, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Gun Kink, Incest, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, Lots of Offscreen Character Death, M/M, Mind Games, Nipple Torture, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Piercings, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Toys, Shaving, Stockholm Syndrome, Tattoos, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:25:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Stiles is a hitman who’s just killed Kate Argent, and then realizes she has a live person tied up in her car trunk.  And is not, at all, a good Samaritan about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, for the last time: darkfic ahead, please check the warning tags.

Stiles takes his hands from around Kate Argent’s broken neck and hears a soft thumping noise.

It’s coming from the trunk of her car. She’d gone down like a dream, barely a scuffle as he’d wrenched her head back by the hair, and anyway, her whole house has a suspicious amount of extremely soundproof insulation, garage included. But he’s cautious anyway, drawing his gun and taking off the safety, then standing up, without making a sound. He checks that his gloves are still intact, then pulls her car keys out and hits the button to unlock the trunk.

The lid pops, and just under that metallic click and groan, there’s an inhaled breath. Stiles mentally re-shoots that asshole lackey they’d grabbed for the blueprints and security details, and then uses the keys to tap up the lid, angling his gun right into the widening crack.

Body. Live. Build and clothes—dark business suit—strongly suggest a man. Well-off, his tie’s flopped over to show the label on the underside and it’s a Hermès. He’s probably around Stiles’ height; Argent’s car is a little light on the trunk space, considering her chosen leisure time activities, and the man’s crammed in there pretty tight. Black electrical tape is wrapped tightly around his wrists, pinning them behind his back, and more binds his ankles. He doesn’t have socks or shoes and his bare feet are very pale against the dark trunk and dark clothes. There’s a cloth hood over his head, taped snugly around his neck.

He doesn’t move, except for his chest occasionally rising sharply with a breath. Stiles stares at him for a couple seconds. Thinks it over, and then silently leans over to rest his elbows on the edge of the car trunk, thinking about it a little more. Not that the man can see him, but the man just lies there and breathes and seems to give him that time to think it over. No plea for help. Granted, he’s probably gagged, but…

Well, Stiles has a dead body he’s got to get rid of. He sighs. Watches the man still and hold his breath for a few seconds, and then, just when the man’s got to breathe again, he reaches over and grabs the man by the back of the coat, and heaves him out of the trunk.

The man lets out a couple grunts and then a groan as his knees bang over the car bumper, then hit the concrete floor. He wrenches his arms a bit, slow and stiff with a slight spasm at the end. Given the time in between Argent sightings today, he’s been in that trunk for a minimum of two hours.

Stiles lets go of the suitcoat and lightly taps the man’s shoulder to steady him, then grabs him under the jaw, forcing that up. He gets a little resistance and then the man yields, gorge bobbing roughly against Stiles’ palm. The hood sticks into the man’s nostrils, leaving them briefly outlined against the cloth, and the man blows out fiercely through his nose but somehow resists shaking his head.

So at that point, Stiles admits his curiosity’s piqued. But he’s not an idiot, so while he holsters his gun, he also takes out his knife and his earpiece. Pops the earpiece in and dials up Lydia, and then tilts the man’s head so that he can start cutting off the hood.

 _“Talk,”_ Lydia says. _“You’re early. Or you would be, if you weren’t calling.”_

“Yeah, so there was a guy in Argent’s trunk,” Stiles says. “I mean, there is a guy. He’s not in the trunk now.”

The man breathes in short, tight bursts. He’s unnaturally still. He’s not even pulling back against the tug of the hood, so that as Stiles saws through the tape, the motion makes the man sway in place.

 _“He’s not dead?”_ Lydia half-scolds, half-sighs. _“Goddamn it, Stiles.”_

“Not yet.” Stiles gets through the tape but pinches the bottom of the hood between his fingers, keeping it down while he moves the knife out of the way. Then he eases the hood up the neck and over the chin. “What? It was weird, did you expect me not to look?”

Lydia doesn’t answer because Lydia is typing furiously. The sound of it coming over the line is just a little short of machine-gun fire.

The skin that’s revealed is smooth and wrinkle-free, so it’s not an old guy. There’s a piece of tape stuck over his mouth, going almost from ear to ear, but the jawline and chin aren’t bad. The nose flares out its nostrils as the cloth goes over it, and then the man stifles a cough, his shoulders shivering. He has dark hair, almost black, just long enough so that it starts to curl over his ears.

Stiles pins the hood to his cheekbone with the fingers of the hand under his chin, and then feels up under the cloth with his other. He touches something that flickers against his fingertips: no blindfold.

 _“I need a photo,”_ Lydia says abruptly.

“Got it,” Stiles says, and pushes the hood completely off.

The man winces at the light, then lets out a choked hiss as Stiles yanks him roughly back up by the jaw. His pupils are dilated on the screen as Stiles snaps the photo. His eyes are blue, very blue, very wide.

Stiles lowers his phone, then puts it away. The man’s adjusted a little to the light, although he’s still blinking hard. Early to mid-thirties. He’s very attractive. Handsome now, probably pretty when he was younger, the jaw not quite as broad, but there’s still enough of that delicateness around the sharp lines of his cheeks and nose for Stiles to run a thumb over his cheekbone without thinking about it.

Those blue eyes flick over to Stiles’ thumb, then drop, very deliberately, showing off the lashes that had tickled Stiles’ fingers. The man pushes up on his knees a little, tips his head into Stiles’ hand so that Stiles’ thumb runs back over his cheek, just under his eye, and then Stiles’ fingertips slide over his ear into soft, thick hair.

Stiles tilts his head the same way, watching. He jerks at the man’s chin again, just as rough. Just to see. And the man hisses again, but lower, slower, rocking his head up with the jerk. His knee pushes into the tip of Stiles’ shoe, then follows the curve of the sole so that he’s beginning to shuffle himself over it. Looking up, pupils dilated again. Snorting, Stiles digs his nails into the side of the man’s face, just behind the jaw hinge.

The man winces _up_ , sliding his head away by moving it backwards, so Stiles’ nails clip his jawline and then skate harmlessly on slightly-stubbled skin. His dress shirt stretches taut over his front, showing a flat belly and hints of firm pecs. A little tugs out of his waistband, just up to the vee of the tails so a glimpse of skin shows.

“Well, you’re up for playing, aren’t you,” Stiles says under his breath, looking at all of that. He moves his hand back, but he’s gentle this time, rubbing his fingers over the angry red dents his nails have left.

Passes his thumb over the tape on the man’s mouth, and as he does the man sucks at the tape, hard enough to make it go ever-so-slightly concave. Stiles laughs, curling his fingers under the man’s jaw.

Then he twists around. Seizes the man by the nape and drags him over the floor, over to where he can see Argent’s corpse and where Stiles can see his face.

The man goes _slack_. Slack and staring, complete and genuine shock. And then—and then he looks delighted. It’s unmistakable, the way the apples of his cheeks lift slightly, the spark in his eyes, the muffled little noise he makes, he’s absolutely delighted at the sight. This wasn’t a messy kill at all, but still, for a civilian, it’s not a normal reaction.

Stiles is awkwardly contorted around the corner of the bumper, so he moves himself to be on the same side as the man and Argent’s body, and the man looks up at him. Still doing his best to grin behind the tape, eyes dancing with glee, but that—the guy’s calculating this all the way, but at the same time he’s strangely heedless about it, almost like he’s drunk or drugged.

He pivots with surprising speed, despite his bonds, and presses himself up against Stiles’ leg. His taped mouth moves against Stiles’ thigh, pushing up and then deep into the muscle, till just the bridge of his nose and his eyes are showing, and then he slides up his chin. His dress shirt’s silk or something similar, making a slippery rustling noise against Stiles’ jeans. He moves his head over a little, closer to Stiles’ groin, and then rolls himself against Stiles’ leg. Ass first, trousers snug enough to tighten over his buttocks with it, then belly, up through his shoulders that he arches back like a kitten.

The man goes straight for Stiles’ fly and Stiles catches him just a hair from it, knotting fingers into the hair on the back of his head. “Seriously?” Stiles says. “This gets you hot?”

Nodding, even though it obviously pulls painfully at his hair, the man hitches his chin towards Stiles’ fly. He moans through the tape, eyes fixed on Stiles.

 _“Peter Hale,”_ Lydia says crisply in Stiles’ ear. _“White-collar transactional lawyer, comes from a rich family in Beacon Hills. The Hale matriarch had a dispute with Gerard Argent over some land, but died in a home fire before it was fully litigated. Suspected arson.”_

“No shit,” Stiles says. He pulls at Peter’s hair, then lets go of that and grabs the back of Peter’s neck again. Uses that to haul Peter to his feet, allowing the man to press into him for balance.

Peter’s a tad shorter. Has weight on Stiles that he tries to use, slumping forward so they swing towards the car, but he stops that when Stiles holds a knife to his throat. His eyes don’t get any less gleeful but they’re so close together that nobody could hide that nervous flinch. Not quite as sure of himself as he thinks.

 _“Most of his family died in that fire. Actually, he was supposed to have died in that fire.”_ Lydia sounds like she’s reading off her monitor and then she pauses. When she speaks again, a tiny thread of suppressed exasperation has worked into her voice. _“Stiles. Honestly. He has eyes on you, doesn’t he.”_

He certainly does, and he’s got them on Stiles even though Stiles is digging the tip of his knife into the bottom of Peter’s chin, forcing that up. Peter’s cheek muscles are twitching around the tape, probably grimaces of pain, but he’s still pushing himself into Stiles. He’s half-hard and he slides his hips a little every time Stiles eases up on the knife, clearly trying to work his erection up next to the one Stiles is, yeah, getting.

“Well, yeah, but he’s already dead, isn’t he? So it’s not like it matters, right?” Stiles says. He still has a grip on Peter’s neck and he jerks at that, getting his fingers wound into the back of Peter’s tie. Pulls on it, till Peter chokes a little, and then loosens up. Moves the knife away so Peter can lower his head. “For a dead guy, you look pretty good, Peter.”

Peter maybe _hasn’t_ been eavesdropping, because he goes stiff. He starts a little when Stiles darts in, licks that bead of blood off the underside of his chin, and then he’s trying to rub in again when Stiles hauls him back by the tie.

“Yeah, no, turn around,” Stiles says.

Peter stares at him.

Stiles smiles nicely. It’s the smile he uses with older women, when he needs to look lost and a little hapless.

So Peter is not buying that at all, from the way his eyes narrow. His glee’s tempered a fair bit, but in its place Stiles is starting to see a very familiar curiosity, and maybe some respect too. Which, honestly, is getting _Stiles_ hotter than the whole joyful dance on my enemies’ grave thing.

One last time, Peter leans into Stiles, all warm promise, and then he turns around. He lowers his head coyly as he does it, letting that lead the turn, and when Stiles slips an arm around his waist, he drops his shoulder and drags that across Stiles’ chest, a tease as much as it’s for real support. 

Stiles does appreciate it, and gives Peter a passing lick at the back of the neck that makes the man shiver. But then he pulls Peter up tight against him with both arms. Locks the one across his belly, the other high up on his chest, and slides the knife back by Peter’s throat.

Peter tries to avoid that by dropping his head back onto Stiles’ shoulder, but Stiles just shifts to follow, keeping the blade firm over the artery. He moves his other hand lower, to just over the button of Peter’s fly. Rests it for a moment, letting it rise and fall with Peter’s slightly tight breathing, and then he wraps his fingers into Peter’s waistband. Tugs it, but Peter’s paying attention to the knife at his throat so Stiles has to prick the point of it into his jaw to make him shift down. Just a little, just enough so that Stiles’ shoulder pushes Peter away from looking at him and forward to look at the ground.

“Go ahead, look,” Stiles says. He burrows into Peter’s hair, then works his way along the man’s head till his mouth is right behind Peter’s ear. Every time he breathes out, Peter’s ass hitches up against him. “Look. Now that’s _real_ dead, isn’t it, not whatever con you’re pulling.”

Just as Peter tips his head, Stiles licks into the hollow behind Peter’s ear, sticks his hand down Peter’s waistband. Also moves the knife away, and a good thing, because how Peter jumps, he would’ve sliced himself down to the tendons.

 _“You’re such a sucker,”_ Lydia mutters. She’s typing madly again. _“Stiles, I swear to God, if this ends up like Miami—”_

“Well, I’m on vacation now, and you still owe me for Charleston,” Stiles mutters. 

He licks at Peter again, then shifts over and catches the edge of Peter’s ear between his teeth. Peter shudders, his fists twisting and pressing into Stiles’ stomach, and then he forces open a hand, almost gets at Stiles’ belt-buckle. Stiles laughs but hikes the man back up by the waist, then worms his hand around till he’s got a tight hold on Peter’s balls. Then tightens it more, till Peter is squirming, making little pained noises behind his gag. He bites Peter hard behind the ear and the cock trapped right next to Stiles’ hand twitches. Peter groans and his hands ball back into fists.

 _“You’re not on vacation till you finish this job,”_ Lydia snaps. _“Neither of us are. And if you keep me from Milan Fashion Week, so help me, Stiles…you aren’t even listening, are you? Damn it, Stiles, I can hear him.”_

Peter’s sensitive around his throat. When Stiles licks it, he moans. When Stiles _bites_ it, he bucks so sharply that Stiles at first thinks the man’s fighting it, and yanks on Peter’s balls so hard that it gets a high, almost screaming whimper from him. But then Stiles feels Peter’s ass rubbing back into him and he gets it, and loosens up his grip. He noses past Peter’s shirt-collar, pulls at Peter’s tie with his teeth. Sees the slight ligature mark from where it had dug in earlier, and promptly nips and sucks all along it, as far as he can reach, turning the thin, sharply-defined red mark into a wide one with blurry borders.

“No, I’m listening,” Stiles says as he works Peter over. “Totally listening. So body drop, clean up, mail you the trackers, hole up. Got it.”

 _“Tracker?”_ Lydia barks, just as Peter freezes.

Stiles laughs into Peter’s neck, and then flicks his knife back out and cuts through Peter’s tie. He holds it up in front of Peter, slowly massaging his fingers around and under Peter’s scrotum, and then flaps his hand to twist up the tie around it, till he can pick out and pinch off that little piece of plastic.

“Not that I blame you,” Stiles says to Peter. He stuffs the tie into his pocket with his knife, along with his gloves, and then reaches around. Unbuttons the top couple buttons of Peter’s shirt while he’s at it. Puts his hand inside, around Peter’s throat, and grips it lightly. “So where’s the other one?”

Fear’s trying to keep Peter still, but arousal keeps making him writhe. His hips are still sliding against Stiles, his ass pressing back. Jerky, but it’s pressing back, not away. Then Stiles moves the hand he has in Peter’s pants and Peter gives him an extra hard twist, hissing against the tape, and Stiles grins. He searches around in there—boxers, nice silk ones—till he pulls out another small bit of black plastic, which he disarms and puts away with the other one.

Peter sags suddenly when he sees that, then flinches like he’s forgotten who he’s lying against. Stiles pulls him back and pushes a hand back down his pants, this time over the boxers, wrapping them around Peter’s still-hard cock. A muffled snarl comes out of Peter and he fights a little, but then sags again, moaning, when Stiles sucks at his throat.

“Oh, come on, might as well get off,” Stiles says to him. Working Peter’s cock from base to head, then catching the boxers over the head, pressing the ball of his thumb down till precome wets through the silk. “She’s still dead, anyway. That’s gotta be a good thing.”

Shaking his head, Peter keeps moaning. His hands grab at Stiles’ shirt and then let go, then grab at each other as his knees start to go. He scuffles a little, swinging forward, then leans into it as Stiles drags him back. He’s looking at the body on the floor.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Stiles coos. He works at Peter’s throat, too, mouth from one side, fingers rubbing up from the other. Then one of Peter’s bucks makes his hand slip, slide far enough to pass over a nipple, and the way Peter’s moan suddenly wavers gives Stiles all kinds of ideas.

He comes back to the nipple and just pinches it lightly, and Peter’s coming. Head going back to thump against Stiles’ shoulder, feet skidding out from under him, boxers a warm, sodden mess in between Stiles’ fingers.

 _“…iles!”_ Lydia is saying.

“So who was supposed to be dead in that fire?” Stiles says.

He’s still damn hard, but he’s far enough from his climax that it’s just—really frustrating for a second. He takes it out on Peter, pushing the man roughly off and then down to his knees, and then wiping his hands off on the front of Peter’s shirt. Peter grunts when he goes down, then looks nervously up, but he’s still too dazed to do anything else.

And then he sees the knife back in Stiles’ hand, and he’s too smart. He goes very still and tense, and when he drops his gaze this time, it’s as much to hide whatever he’s trying to plot out as to appeal to Stiles. It’s cute, Stiles thinks, and then laughs at it and at himself as he puts on fresh gloves and goes about getting Kate Argent’s body rolled up in plastic.

Lydia’s busy on her end, and is quiet all through Stiles stowing the corpse in the SUV he’s using, and then checking over the scene. It’s all going to burn anyway, but Lydia wouldn’t get so worked up if she didn’t know exactly how thorough Stiles is. Even when he’s playing.

Peter watches him the whole time. Catching his breath, covertly working at his limbs—just stretching them, otherwise Stiles would have to go over and knock him out—shifting his hips and thighs with increasing discomfort. It’s the last one that finally makes Stiles go back to him, pulling him up to his feet by his throat.

A little gasp from Peter, but that’s it. He looks back at Stiles with level eyes. Not challenging, not that aggressive. Not that _stupid_ , and yeah, so Lydia’s a little on point with calling him out for being a sucker, but it’s just not that common. It’s interesting.

Stiles keeps his hold on Peter’s throat even though Peter’s standing on his own. He reaches over and jerks open Peter’s fly. Trousers slip a little but barely hang onto Peter’s hips; must be custom-tailored, to get that kind of fit. They do fall when Stiles pushes his hand past the zipper, but Stiles grabs a handful before they get too far. Feels over the cold, unpleasantly sticky spot on the front of Peter’s boxers, and all the while Peter’s twitching but his gaze stays steady.

He pushes Peter up against his SUV. Peter grunts from the impact, arching slightly. Then he does it again, slower. Fluttering his lashes again.

Yeah, cute’s the right word, Stiles thinks, looking at him. Then he grins and pushes in. He uses his shoulder to pin Peter in place while he gets his jeans open, just enough to pull out his own cock, and then he pushes that into Peter’s boxers enough so that his cock’s pointed right where Peter’s come is drying.

He licks his hand, right in front of Peter, and Peter tilts his head to the side and forward, making hungry noises like that’s going to get the tape off his mouth. Still, it’s a nice show, and as quick as Stiles is going to have to make this, he can use the help.

Stiles starts working at his cock, two slow pumps to get adjusted, and then a couple quick ones. He leans his shoulder against Peter again, stopping the man from pushing up and rubbing at him, and then digs into his pockets with his other hand. Gets out his detonation switch, holds it in Peter’s line of sight, and presses the button. 

Peter doesn’t quite know what he’s looking at, and then he does. His eyes widen and he heaves so hard he almost knocks Stiles away, a frantic, strangled noise coming from him. 

Stiles shoves him back, then grabs his jaw and makes Peter face him. He looks at Peter’s eyes, almost grey with panic, and then he gives his cock one last pump, coming right into Peter’s boxers.

“Delayed trigger, Peter,” he says, and if he wasn’t pressing Peter up with his weight, Peter’d probably be flat on his face on the floor.

He slumps a little, it’s that good. Peter’s still shaking but Stiles gets in a quick smacking kiss to his taped mouth, and then Stiles laughs. Gets off. Pulls up his and Peter’s pants with a few quick jerks. Then he grabs Peter by the arm and drags him around the SUV. Pushes Peter into the front passenger seat, then crawls over him to get into the driver’s seat. Starts the car and gets the hell out of there, about fifteen seconds before it all goes up.

* * *

Peter takes about four minutes and forty seconds, give or take a five-second margin, to recover. Till then, he’s half-slumped into the footwell, his head and shoulders pillowed into the car seat as the gag chokes off his gasps. He stares around the seat and through the rear window at the bright flames, and then keeps staring, even when they’re too far for him to see those. Arson, yep.

Lydia finally comes back online. _“This got complicated,”_ she says curtly. _“You deal with the trackers, turtle play. I’ll update later.”_

Stiles doesn’t bother saying bye; she’s already cut the line. He takes off the earpiece, then his gloves, as he steers the SUV into increasingly dense and dark woods. Then looks over at Peter just as the man twists to look at him.

“Thirsty?” Stiles says.

Peter’s brows tick up slightly. They rise higher when Stiles pulls a bottle of water out of the car door pocket, and then he flinches at the crack of Stiles breaking the cap seal. It’s dark—Stiles doesn’t have his headlights on—but Peter is maybe reconsidering his approach.

Or maybe not. He humps himself up against the seat, keeping his face turned towards Stiles. Pauses, then turns himself sideways. Pushes up till he can get a knee over the edge of the cushion, his head bobbing almost into the parking brake as he fights to keep his balance. Then he steadies. He pulls his other knee up, and is about to straighten his torso when Stiles reaches across and yanks him forward by a fistful of suitcoat.

Peter yelps behind the gag, hastily wrenching himself aside to avoid being impaled on the gearshift, and then thumps heavily down. There’s a gap between the seats and he’s sagging awkwardly into it, pinched between the gearshift and the small storage compartment behind that. He flops a few times and his feet come dangerously close to kicking at the passenger-side window.

The click of Stiles’ knife coming out makes him freeze. His eyes shoot up and he’s perfectly still, even as the road goes from paved to bumpy gravel. Stiles grins and puts away the knife, and then hauls Peter’s head firmly up onto his thigh by the man’s shirt-collar. Peter sensibly lets his feet slide off the door, doing his best to fold his legs up onto the passenger seat.

All the fun they’d had earlier has already loosened the tape and Stiles only needs to work at one edge for a couple seconds before he gets his nail under it. He peels it off, going slow, and Peter winces and hisses anyway; tape’s not so loosened that it doesn’t hurt, apparently. Still, Peter looks more irritated about the spit that bubbles out, almost going to wipe his mouth against Stiles’ knee before he catches himself.

He looks up again. Stiles rolls his eyes and digs out a tissue, and cleans off Peter’s jaw. Slides his thumb under it and flicks at some of the raw pink spots with his nail, feeling it catch on sticky residue from the tape.

“Hey,” Stiles says.

“Hello,” Peter says. Cautiously, although that odd reckless glint is lurking in his eyes. He’s more of a tenor than Stiles would’ve expected, with his build. “May I have some of the water?”

“Nice manners,” Stiles says, but he gets out the bottle again. He needs to stop soon anyway, so he takes his foot off the accelerator, letting the SUV coast forward, and pushes his thigh up under Peter’s head to make spillage a little less likely.

Though Peter neatly takes care of that by sealing his mouth around the bottle rim. He lets his head tip back as he swallows, stretching his throat out of his shirt. Definitely not second-guessing himself.

Stiles allows the man a quarter of the bottle and then takes it away, running his finger over Peter’s mouth as he does to sop up the extra water. He feels a definite movement towards that finger, and then Peter twists himself a little further over as Stiles lifts his arm, nuzzles towards Stiles’ inseam.

Once the bottle’s stowed, Stiles brings his arm back around and puts his hand on the back of Peter’s head. He sifts his fingertips into the man’s hair, spreading his knees as Peter noses higher up the seam, and then curls them into hooks and jerks Peter away from his crotch. Steps on the brake at the same time.

They’re going about as fast as a snail at that point, but the car still jolts Peter into the gearshift a few times. He grunts with it, his knees hitching up, and then lets out a relieved exhale as Stiles parks the SUV. His head lands back on Stiles’ thigh.

Stiles doesn’t move to get out, just keeps his hand in Peter’s hair. He can feel Peter trying to look up without actually turning his head, working those muscles around his eyes so hard that the twitches make it back to where one of Stiles’ fingers is lying over his temple. It’s very dark back here, nothing but trees and the faint neon glow from the dashboard.

Eventually Peter breaks. “Can I have something to call you by?” he says.

Not, where are we. What are we doing. What are you doing with _me_. Brows raised, Stiles slides his hand down around Peter’s chin and then turns the man’s head so they’re looking at each other. Peter’s gorge bumps up against his knuckles, high point of a hard swallow, but he seems genuinely interested. He’s looking Stiles over like he’s assessing a couple things at once, and not all of them have to do with how bad this could go.

“You realize that’s pretty much asking for it,” Stiles finally says.

Peter tenses the tiniest bit, but weirdly, his eyes say he’s amused. “I’m looking at your face, aren’t I? Unless you’re very fond of plastic surgery, I think it’s already over.”

Stiles has to laugh at that. He runs his hand down Peter’s throat, absently at first, and then purposefully, hearing Peter’s breath catch and remembering the man’s earlier reaction. And then hey, keeps going into Peter’s shirt, pushing down till he finds a nipple.

He pinches it and Peter’s eyes almost shut, the man’s whole face tightening up in an involuntary arch. Peter jerks between the gearshift and the storage compartment, pulling at his arms, as Stiles keeps working at his nipple, pushing up a thumbnail behind it and using that to brace it as a fingertip rolls the nub repeatedly. Without the tape he has to fight to hold back the moans. He does that for the first one, head shaking to the side, and then he turns his head back and looks up at Stiles and doesn’t fight, opening his mouth so wide that Stiles can see his second moan quivering the back of his throat.

And his third, and more. They go ragged quickly, and then fray into pained grunts as Stiles flicks and pinches and toys with the nipple. It starts getting too uncomfortable for Peter, even as much as he obviously likes playing into it, and his hips start to shift against the seat. Then Stiles scores across the nipple with his nail and Peter sucks in his breath over his teeth, twists away from it. Not a planned reaction, he tries to hide it with a rock forward, but Stiles was chasing anyway and cuts his nail across again, and Peter can’t deal with the two so quick together. He outright flinches this time, hissing, and then whimpers when Stiles just presses down hard on his nipple, straight down, forcing it back into his chest. 

Almost says something, a begging word that gets smashed down and then swallowed roughly as Peter twists under Stiles’ thumb. He’s not looking at Stiles now, he’s looking away and to the side, chewing his lip so hard that Stiles can see faint shadowy grooves in it after it pulls out from under his teeth.

His shoulders wrench from side to side, and then he throws back his head, is going to try and fling himself free when Stiles lifts the thumb. Peter stutters instead, then clumsily flops back into place. He’s panting, and he winces a little as Stiles pulls out his hand—after that, when his shirt falls against his nipple.

“Stiles,” Stiles says. “So, hey, you’re dead, apparently?”

Peter just catches his breath for a few seconds, facing down into Stiles’ footwell. Then one of his shoulders moves in a shrug. “If someone sets your house on fire, and then bribes the local authorities to declare it an accident…it seemed prudent at the time.”

“Huh.” Stiles works his hand under Peter, then lifts the man off. Puts him upright in the passenger seat, and then pulls the seatbelt down over him and fastens it. “Well, try not to die in here, all right? I like this car.”

He pulls back, feeling Peter’s surprised puff of breath on his ear, and rests his forearms on Peter’s shoulders. Cups Peter’s face between his hands, looking at the man, and then he grins and rubs his thumbs up the underside of Peter’s throat. Gives Peter’s chest a pat, right over the abused nipple, while Peter’s busy staring at him, and then gets out of the car.

Getting rid of Kate Argent’s body takes a couple hours. One hour to dig the grave, the other hour to do all the things that proper body disposal requires, and to fill back up. Stiles stays within sight of the car, but not within Peter’s sight. He’s really curious now.

Peter, however, doesn’t do anything. In fact, when Stiles gets back to the car, it looks like Peter hasn’t moved at all.

He does clear his throat right when Stiles is reaching for the keys. “Can I relieve myself?” he asks.

“Well, yeah, but I like this car,” Stiles says, starting the engine. He backs the car around and pulls onto the gravel, then looks over. “Could you do fifteen minutes?”

Peter’s looking out the windshield. His shirt’s rucked almost completely out of his waistband and Stiles can see some dark streaks on it, like maybe some of the come got onto the tails. He’s got a line of mouth-shaped bruises leading from behind his ear down his throat and into his crumpled shirt-collar. He looks good, and he’s at least aware of it, judging from his wry tone. “Or there’s another hole out there?”

“It’s a big woods. There’s room,” Stiles says, shrugging.

That’s it for conversation. Sighing, Peter slumps down in his seat. He’s watching more than the scenery, but when he realizes they’re not heading anywhere near town, or, frankly, anywhere near something like a road sign, he presses his lips tightly together. So he doesn’t know the area very well.

They crisscross the woods, then take a sharp turn and crest a hill, and suddenly they’re looking at a log cabin. A little disbelieving noise comes out of Peter and he glances at Stiles, totally clocking the flannel shirt Stiles has on. Then he looks at the cabin again.

“It’s part of a bigger complex. One of those fancy-ass retreats,” Stiles explains as they drive up to it.

“Survivalist?” Peter says.

“S&M fetish,” Stiles says. He puts the car in park and then leans over, putting his hand on the buckle to Peter’s seatbelt. “So nobody’s going to blink at people getting dragged around in chains.”

Peter smiles tightly. “How comforting.”

“Isn’t it?” Stiles says. He releases the seatbelt buckle, then reaches up and ruffles his hand through Peter’s hair. Then grabs Peter by the back of the neck and hauls him forward for a kiss.

Peter’s still tense from the hair-ruffle, not quite quick enough to hide that. Then he opens his mouth and he does his damnedest to match Stiles, pressing forward and moaning. Stiles enjoys it for a couple chases of his tongue around Peter’s mouth, and then he pulls back. Pushes Peter into the door, then hops out and gets around, and opens the door before Peter can shift off it.

He catches Peter against him as the other man stumbles out, grabbing under the arms, and then pulls Peter’s suitcoat off his shoulders so it bunches up at his elbows. Stiles uses that like a leash to hold Peter against the car while he leans down and slashes through the tape on Peter’s ankles. And then he hauls Peter into the cabin by it.

Peter’s feet are pretty filthy at this point, but the cabin designers helpfully put in a mudroom with a little spigot for this sort of thing. Also, random metal rings set into the walls. The tape around Peter’s wrists is too thick to get a handcuff around, so Stiles cuts up Peter’s suitcoat and uses the scraps to tie one of his arms to the ring.

If Peter yanked at it enough times, it’d give, but Stiles just needs a couple minutes to clean out the SUV. By the time he’s done, Peter’s feet are washed off and…Peter hasn’t even tried. The scraps are still tied so tight that Stiles has to cut him free.

“Oh, you remembered,” Peter says as Stiles pushes him into a bathroom. “Thank you, it _was_ getting urgent.”

Stiles looks at him, but Peter appears to be…fully aware of what he sounds like, and fully indifferent about it. “You’re the kind of guy who’s snide with a gun in his mouth, aren’t you?” he says.

He flips up the toilet lid and positions Peter in front of the bowl, and then pulls open Peter’s trousers. Studies all the dried come in there, then shrugs and scrapes at Peter’s boxers till they peel down. Peter sucks in his breath a few times but he deals with that pretty well, considering the number of curly hairs that come off with the boxers.

Then he’s going to wash off his hands, but as Stiles moves away, Peter twists slightly. Stiles slews back around and Peter raises his brows, because all he was doing was rolling his shoulders. Then Peter smiles pleasantly at Stiles, and nods downwards.

“Do you mind?” he says. He waits a moment and then tilts his head. “Well, I don’t want to assume, but this does look just as nice as the car, and I wouldn’t want to cause a mess.”

“Absolutely that kind of guy,” Stiles says. He starts to step back, then thinks the better of it and goes behind Peter. Watches Peter’s shoulders twitch upwards and his neck tense as the man fights not to turn around.

Peter leans back just as Stiles presses up to him. “You could find out for yourself,” he says, voice very soft, hips settling easily into the cradle of Stiles’ hands.

“Oh. Oh, I get it.” Stiles holds Peter by the hips for a second, then slides his hands around front. Just short of Peter’s cock, grinning into Peter’s nape when the man can’t help an anticipatory cant forward. “We’re playing it that way, are we?”

“Well, I’m dead, and you appear to have time on your hands,” Peter says. His voice gets very breathy, and then it drops into a low moan as Stiles finally wraps a hand around his cock. “Why not?”

“Point,” Stiles says. He uses his grip on Peter’s cock to push the man more firmly against him, and then smooths his other hand up Peter’s belly and onto his chest. Lets Peter’s own breath push his nipple, the untouched one, in between his fingers, and then traps it just as Peter realizes and stiffens. “So. Don’t make a mess.”

Peter’s perfectly still and as rigid as steel. Then he breathes in, a short bark of a breath. He’s still for several aching seconds. Breathes out. Breathes in, a little quicker, and then he lets out a ragged, shocked sound that’s half-angry, half-admiring. His body relaxes at the same time, allowing him to piss into the toilet.

When he’s done, he’s going to say something and instead Stiles licks him behind the ear, pinches his nipple. Inhaling roughly, Peter shivers into Stiles and then swallows a groan that vibrates his throat against Stiles’ chin.

“Good.” Stiles kisses the side of his throat, then steps back. Washes his hands and pushes Peter into the shower.

* * *

It’s a big damn shower, more than enough room for two people, and it has one of those rainfall showerheads. And, of course, thick rings hanging from the wall at various positions. Stiles uses two of them, slinging a chain between them with a set of manacles at the low point. He cuts the tape off Peter’s wrists. Clucks a little at how raw the skin under them looks, but still fastens the manacles tightly enough for Peter to wince.

The chains let Peter sit or kneel under the showerhead, his hands back behind him, but don’t let him get higher than that. Peter’s mouth twists a little, but then he shrugs and smiles up at Stiles like he’s really just going to make the best of it, with coy glances at Stiles’ fly.

Stiles is tempted, but he’s also dirty. And Peter’s beginning to smell a little ripe himself. “How long were you in there?” Stiles asks, stripping off.

He takes his knife in with him and cuts off the rest of Peter’s clothes. Peter flinches a little when Stiles is working the knife around a patch of boxers that’s still stuck to his inner thigh, but otherwise he might as well be kneeling for his own amusement. “It was a little after seven when she drugged me,” he says. 

His shoulders fall slightly when Stiles puts the knife aside, and then rise again as Stiles returns with a straight-edge razor. Then he pulls his eyes back to Stiles’ face with a visible effort.

“That’s about three hours,” Stiles says. He fiddles with the shower controls till he’s got the water coming out of a handheld attachment instead of the showerhead, then adjusts the temperature. “Drugged you?”

Peter looks rueful. “I was admittedly a little careless. The idea was to meet her in a neutral location, to get her guard down, and then have her drive me home where I could take care of her in peace.”

Stiles hums in acknowledgment. After testing the blade—it’s sharp enough—he sets the razor aside and then gives himself and Peter both a quick once-over with the water, just enough to get their bodies damp. Then he switches the flow to the showerhead and grabs the soap.

It doesn’t take him too long, just a couple minutes. The showerhead feels great, especially on his back, but it’s too noisy so Stiles switches back to the handheld attachment. He finds a shower puff and soaps it up—nice, thick lather—and then starts working Peter over. “So what went wrong?”

“Location wasn’t as neutral as I presumed,” Peter says, after a moment’s pause. He’d been looking a little puzzled during Stiles’ scrubbing-down, but he relaxes as the puff runs over his shoulders. “She got to the bartender.”

“Kind of surprised you didn’t think of that. I mean, drugging her.” Stiles could go for the shampoo but he chooses not to, just raking his fingers back through Peter’s hair till the skin’s pink where the thick strands part.

“Well, I needed her to be able to drive me to wherever she was staying. I didn’t know where that was,” Peter explains, with clear reluctance. He’s obviously annoyed at himself. “Also, I thought she was—I’d been talking to her for a while, trying to get her to agree to an alliance. I thought she had. She _needed_ me for—well, I’m sure you’re not interested.”

Stiles runs his fingers through Peter’s hair a last time, then lets his hand slide down to cup the back of Peter’s throat. “In a work sense, maybe not. In a personal sense, you’re telling me a story, and stories aren’t really interesting if you keep bleeping out the good parts.”

He gives Peter’s nipples a good, hard scrub as he talks. Peter twists under it, especially when Stiles nails the one that’s still swollen, and then hisses. “Fine, fine, you don’t have to—Stiles, I’ll—”

“But I _want_ to,” Stiles says, dragging the puff over Peter’s nipple again. He corkscrews the rough netting into Peter’s chest, waiting for Peter to break, and when Peter stops pressing his lips together and starts whimpering, Stiles lifts the puff off.

The soap is almost all rinsed out, anyway. He goes to get more, listening to Peter’s heavy breathing, and then comes back. Kicks at Peter’s knee, then squats down as Peter slowly pulls his legs apart. Peter’s bracing himself for it, and when Stiles just starts washing his legs, the surprise of it makes Peter start and almost lose balance.

“Well, I gather you know why I’d want to kill her, to begin with,” Peter says. When Stiles rubs him a little roughly on the inner thigh, he sucks in his breath and then sighs. He’s not quite as sensitive there as with his nipples, although he’s watching with some concern as Stiles works up his leg. “Her damned father had it in for my family. She tricked her way into our house during a family gathering and set off a firebomb. I happened to not be there, but I wasn’t that far off. Close enough to hear my family burning alive.”

“And then you hid?” Stiles says. He lifts the puff and squeezes some of the lather onto Peter’s groin, then pushes it down and around Peter’s cock and scrotum. Reaches around with his other hand and fluffs up the suds, spreading them across the man’s groin from thigh to thigh.

Peter inhales again, a little lowly. His cock is stirring and Stiles encourages that with a couple rubs of the palm over the head. Gets Peter to rattle the chains, pushing into it. “Well, I wasn’t going to leave it to the police. I needed time. Supplies. Contacts. I’m sure you can extrapolate, given your…profession?”

“It’s a little more than a hobby,” Stiles concedes. He teases his fingers along the underside of Peter’s cock as it slowly rises out of the lather, grinning as Peter’s eyes darken with lust.

“Gerard Argent—Kate’s father—he died six months ago. Unexpectedly. Under mysterious circumstances.” Peter cocks his head curiously. “Your work?”

“If I’m a professional, well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t disclose confidential information about my clients.” Stiles abruptly slides the puff back along Peter’s perineum, grinding it upwards as Peter starts. He twists his hand over so that his knuckle digs through the netting, then grabs Peter’s shoulder and pushes him down when Peter instinctively lifts away from the pressure.

Peter nods hurriedly, then lets out a choked, pleading sound as Stiles keeps pushing with that knuckle, massaging up towards his prostate. He yanks at the chains, then heaves back his head and looks wildly at Stiles. Then jerks forward, his mouth almost grazing Stiles’ jaw as Stiles pulls away.

The chains catch Peter back. He falls off his legs and onto his hip, gasping. Shakes himself, then attempts to rock back onto his knees. Stiles pushes his left leg out from under him, then holds it till Peter gets it and, grimacing, sits his ass down with his knees bent, legs wide open.

“Anyway,” Peter starts again. He doesn’t quite have his breath back. Looks a little shaken, actually, way more obvious about how he’s tracking Stiles around. “Kate thought it was murder. She wanted very badly to know who it was. I told her I could help.”

“And she bought that?” Stiles snorts, getting more soap.

Also the razor. He does let it twirl to catch the light as he comes back, but regrets that when Peter jerks back, legs closing, and Stiles has to drag him forward by one foot.

“You want me to rip out those come mats instead?” he snaps at Peter. He points the razor at Peter’s groin, then catches Peter’s left knee as it tries to swing into it. “They’re going to itch like hell, soon as you towel off.”

Peter stops fighting but he’s trembling, his eyes helplessly wide as he watches the razor go down. “And this is simply for my well-being.”

“Well, also, my kink.” Stiles shrugs at him. Pauses with his hands on Peter’s thighs, razor pressed against the skin of one.

As afraid as Peter is, he’s also thinking that over. He might actually _not_ be capable of not calculating, Stiles thinks, as Peter chews on his lip, even as his thigh muscles shiver against Stiles’ palms. That’s probably how Kate Argent got him, kept his mind too busy scheming about minor things while she went for the blunt, straightforward route.

“Ah,” Peter finally says. His jaw tightens as Stiles picks up his cock, moves it out of the way. He holds his breath the whole time that the razor’s touching him, and then lets it out in a sharp grunt as Stiles lifts it to flick off the suds and hair.

First stroke out of the way, Peter starts to relax, even though he can’t get his eyes away from the razor. Still, Stiles makes sure the blade’s off when he clears his throat, and a good thing, with how Peter jumps. “You offered Kate…”

“She thought her father had been killed by some rivals. Can I at least assume you know how Gerard actually made his money?” Peter says. He breathes out heavily as Stiles leaves off his groin to shave his scrotum. “Smuggling?”

“Yeah, I know that, skip it.” Stiles makes quick work of Peter’s balls, then cradles them in his hand as he swishes the razor in a nearby puddle of water. He rolls his thumb across the thin skin, listens to Peter’s breathing change, and then slides his thumb up and down the center, working apart the testicles.

Peter’s hips rock the tiniest bit forward. “Well, I occasionally do some work for those rivals. She knew that, it was entirely plausible that I’d have knowledge about them that would help her.”

“And that you’re the kind of guy who screws over his clients, I take it?” Stiles says. He pushes Peter’s scrotum and cock aside and starts in on the unshaved side of Peter’s groin. 

But lets his fingers drift over to the newly-denuded side, tickling it. He can see Peter’s belly tensing and twitching as the man tries not to react to it, and then he hits an especially sensitive spot and Peter bucks up sharply. Then hisses just as sharply, twisting frantically at the chains.

Snorting, Stiles holds up the razor. Which is not bloody, because he pulled it away in time. The look Peter shoots him is plain, pure anger, for that one second before Peter remembers exactly where and how they are.

Peter freezes, then shuffles slightly back as Stiles gets up. He twists his head around and then twists his body against the chains, as much as they’ll let him, to follow Stiles as Stiles walks around behind him. “I’m not as morally upright as some people, but I’m certainly not as devoid of them as others I could name. As you’ve met, I’m sure,” he says carefully.

“As some guy who’s got you chained up in the middle of the woods?” Stiles grabs the puff again, and then pushes it against Peter’s back, right between the shoulder blades. He squeezes it till the suds run down Peter’s spine, dripping in between his buttocks, and then moves it there.

Scrubs it down hard against Peter’s ass, forcing it deep till Peter is fighting to get forward. The slippery floor makes it impossible for Peter to get his legs together, and the more he tries, the further apart they get. Then Peter manages to get back onto his knees. His head goes down in counterweight and Stiles lays an arm over his back to keep it there.

“Yeah. I don’t really care how good or bad you are, honestly. Although the kind of people who usually end up in trunks of cars belonging to people like Kate Argent, well.” Stiles shakes his head. Grabs the nearest of Peter’s buttocks and pulls it out of the way, then shaves off a few hairs. “Let’s just say, even before I heard that you’re actually supposed to be dead, I didn’t really think anybody would come looking.”

Peter makes a noise that could have been a snarl. If he’d let it get farther than the bottom of his throat, if he wasn’t so stiff from bracing against the razor working around his hole and down his perineum that it’s a wonder his chest can stretch enough for just breathing. Then he shudders, as soon as the razor leaves him. He shudders and he inhales like he’s been half-drowned and just broken the surface, and _then_ he goes calm.

Still a little stiff. Stiles rubs his free hand over Peter’s back, sussing out the tension in the muscles there. Then slides it down Peter’s spine. Rubs a circle at the base of it before dipping two fingers between the buttocks. A little pool of water’s collected at the small of Peter’s back and it gets dragged along with Stiles’ hand, trickles over the freshly-shaved skin. Makes Peter shiver, head dropping lower than it has to.

Then Stiles runs his hand back up. He’s done here, so he pulls Peter up straight by the nape, and then goes back around. Laves up Peter’s cheeks and jaw, tests the razor. Strops it a few times against the granite wall.

“Was it a good story?” Peter suddenly asks. He’s eyeing the razor, but when Stiles comes back to him, he tips up his chin before Stiles even has a hand on him.

“I guess it wasn’t bad,” Stiles says. He grins as he starts the razor up on Peter’s left cheekbone. “This Arabian Nights? You think you’ve got enough stories in you?”

“I think you could find a few other uses for me,” Peter says. Confident enough to do it with lowered lashes.

Stiles glances past Peter’s head, still shaving the man. He moves his foot forward and tilts it up on its heel, using it to move Peter’s cock into view. And that’s hard, hasn’t flagged at all, flushed and leaking a little precome down onto the pale, bare skin around it.

“Although stories, yes.” Peter pauses to let Stiles work at the underside of his chin. “I could tell you a few, too. If that’s what you want.”

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to get there,” Stiles says. “You do seem like the kind who likes to talk, but this is leaving it a little long, isn’t it? You _don’t_ seem so much like the gambling sort. Well, your mess-up with Kate Argent aside.”

The stubble’s not that thick on Peter, and he has really nice skin that doesn’t catch the blade. Feels soft, too, when he takes advantage of Stiles shaking off the blade to rub his shaved cheek against Stiles’ thigh, his breath puffing warmly over the tip of Stiles’ cock, mouth just under it.

“I try not to waste my time either, on useless endeavors,” he says softly. When Stiles doesn’t push his head back, just grips his hair and uses that to bare his unshaved cheek, he nuzzles into Stiles’ thigh like a pet dog. “If you wanted to kill me, it would’ve been best to do it at her house, or in the woods. And I don’t think you’d take the risk of having someone come looking for me, whatever I was offering. So…first you had to decide that it’s not a risk.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says, amused. He pauses halfway through that cheek and just holds Peter by the hair, looking down.

“Yes,” Peter says. He’s stretching a little, so his lower lip seems like it’s always about to catch on Stiles’ cock. “And now that you have, it’s about whether you want to, not whether you need to. So now we can bargain.”

Stiles _does_ appreciate the guy’s sheer bravado, as well as his tenacity. He loosens his fingers in Peter’s hair, rubs at the man’s scalp, and then hauls Peter up by the jaw to finish up shaving. “We’re bargaining, huh.”

Instead answering, Peter tilts his head for the last pass of the razor, and then he cranes it back around. His mouth grazes wetly, hotly, over the head of Stiles’ cock. He pulls back to look, then smiles. Opens up that smile into a grin, and closes it firmly around Stiles’ cock.

He sucks exactly like he looks: strong, relentless, full of tricks. Which he seems to use all in the first few seconds, so that Stiles has to grab at his shoulders for support. Peter’s lucky that he doesn’t get sliced by the razor, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he just takes that as his due, rising up on his knees and bowing his back so his throat seems to elongate as he swallows Stiles down. When Stiles puts his hand against the side of Peter’s throat, feeling it bulge around his cock, Peter moans deeply and pushes back into it, till Stiles wraps his hand over the bulge.

Stiles comes in what usually would be an embarrassingly short amount of time. But with this one, he thinks, leaning on Peter and shaking his head, it’s definitely justified.

He catches his breath. Then leans a little longer, just wondering, and Peter is trembling under his hands but he’s still taking all of Stiles’ cock. Throat’s starting to spasm a little, nose is snorting fiercely into Stiles’ belly, fighting for breath, but he’s not actively trying to get Stiles out of his mouth.

Tempting. Really tempting. But Stiles reins himself in. Stands up, pulls out, and then cups his hand under Peter’s jaw, rubs his thumb over the man’s mouth. “I see your point,” Stiles says.

Peter smiles. He’s terribly pleased with himself, right down to the way he deliberately licks over his lip, just after Stiles has wiped him off.

“Besides, I just killed today, I guess it can’t hurt to wait till tomorrow for my next one,” Stiles adds, and grins himself as Peter stiffens. “Oh, so, I think you might’ve forgotten to say _what_ we were bargaining for.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles leaves Peter in the shower to stew so he can get dressed, and also do a few chores. Check whether he’s got any messages, do a deep dive into the cabin’s inventory, things like that. Because Peter was right about one thing: Stiles has some time on his hands.

When Stiles gets back to Peter, the bathroom’s cooled enough so that Peter’s got goosebumps, although he isn’t shivering. He was staring at Stiles as Stiles walked in, so he was probably listening for the slightest footstep his way.

“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” he says, nodding at the gun holstered under Stiles’ arm.

“Peter, a lot of people are very smart, and then they panic and they do things they regret,” Stiles sighs, unchaining him. “Or they would regret, anyway, if I hadn’t killed them. Up. You can towel off, then into the bedroom.”

The man does as he’s told, although once he realizes Stiles isn’t in a hurry, he takes an unnecessarily long time drying off. He’s not stalling, so far as Stiles can tell; he just likes taking a while. Examines himself while he’s at it, grimacing a little at the raw pink stripes around each wrist and ankle, and then peeking at his shaved groin when he thinks Stiles isn’t looking. His erection’s flagged almost completely, but it’s still sensitive enough so that he occasionally shifts uncomfortably on his feet, and towels that area very gingerly.

He makes an attempt to style his hair with his fingers, and at that point Stiles clucks his tongue. Peter starts like Stiles had slapped him, stumbling and catching himself against the counter. He takes a deep breath, steadies, and then considers the towel in his hand. Then drops it on the floor and walks casually out ahead of Stiles.

He stops again when he sees the set-up in the bedroom. Big platter of food on the bed, right next to an assortment of sex toys and restraints.

“Since we’re bargaining and all,” Stiles says as Peter twists around to look at him. “So I’m gonna throw out some suggestions, and you can take them or not. If you don’t, you don’t. Scout’s honor.”

“No knot badges?” Peter murmurs, glancing back at the bed.

“More like I don’t like using other people’s rope for that, and I had to travel a little light for this one,” Stiles says. Beams sunnily when Peter does a double-take, and then pretends that his cock didn’t twitch at that. “But if you do, you get to eat. How much depends on how many suggestions you take.”

He’s not sure how long it’s been since Peter had a meal, but if Kate grabbed him earlier in the day, he would’ve at least had lunch, and maybe even dinner. So granted, it’s been something like five to eight hours since then, and a lot of activity since; fear tends to make you hungry, and so do a few other emotions Peter’s certainly cycled through. And that platter looks fucking delicious even to Stiles, who’s already snacked plenty on it.

Peter’s mouth twists slightly, obviously agreeing. He considers the spread for another minute, eyes narrowed, jaw tight but not quite clenched. Then his face smooths and his shoulders drop in a nonchalant shrug.

“Very well,” he says. “Where are we starting?”

He is a _total_ gambler, and in so deep he’s flattered when Stiles lies about that to his face. This should be good.

Stiles circles around Peter and goes up to the bed. The platter of food’s on his side, the toys on Peter’s side. He waits till Peter’s come up, too, and then points. “Cock cage or sound, or neither?”

Peter looks. Debates something, and then, very grudgingly, says, “Sound?”

“Basically, I use it to fuck your cock,” Stiles says. He holds one hand up in a cone shape and then slides his index finger into the tip of the cone. “Goes in your ureth—”

“Cage,” Peter immediately says. And looks like he regrets giving that away, even as he lifts his chin and looks at Stiles.

He’s challenging _now_. The sweet, pleasing act is fun, sure, but Stiles has to admit he likes the glint in Peter’s eyes better. He grins approvingly and puts his hand out over the platter. Peter looks over quicker and has another tell in how his gaze goes to the fruit skewers before shifting back to Stiles’ hand, which is not yet there.

Stiles picks up a skewer, then raises his brows at Peter. “Well, you can get that one on yourself, can’t you?”

Peter presses his lips together, and slowly picks up the cock cage. It’s a pretty simple one as they go, just a metal cylinder lined with silicone padding. Then he snorts. “What’s my assurance that I get the food after?”

“Besides the fact that I can shoot you whenever? Which isn’t assurance, true, but seriously,” Stiles says. Then he shrugs and pulls a strawberry off the skewer, and tosses it across the bed. “You really are a lawyer. You’d probably ask for an escrow account if you thought you could get away with it.”

“As one professional to another, you can never ask for too much in a negotiation,” Peter says dryly. He looks the strawberry over—the kitchen even cut off the green top, amazing attention to detail—and then pushes it against his mouth and slowly slides it in. Licks off his finger, chews thoroughly, and swallows, all while looking at Stiles.

Stiles gives him a smile, then nods at the cock cage. A flicker of alarm passes over Peter’s face as he looks down. He rocks it slightly in his hand, then lifts it to his groin. Carefully seats his cock in the open halves, then takes a little bit of a breath and closes the cage over it. Slides the locking pin into place, picks up the lock from the bed and snaps it on. Fits the ring at the end around the base of his scrotum, and locks that, too.

It’s slightly short on him, ending just before the cock head instead of flush against it. He shifts on his feet, not quite grimacing, but it’s clearly tight enough to be uncomfortable, even if he doesn’t seem to be in actual pain. He carefully lowers his cock to hang against his legs, then looks up.

Stiles tosses him the remaining pieces of fruit, one by one, and Peter eats them with increasingly flirtatious licks of his tongue over his lip. He relaxes so long as he’s got Stiles to react again.

“Roll,” Stiles says, holding one up. “Anal beads. All of them have to go in, so we’re clear.”

Peter shakes his head. Pauses, then adds a last, slower shake.

“Fine.” Stiles eats the roll himself, considering the other toys. He adds butter halfway through, and sucks off his fingers noisily.

“How long have you been at this?” Peter suddenly says.

“At this, or at killing people?” Stiles says. Then he picks up another roll, the second of three. “The dildo.”

Peter is silent for a good minute, clearly doing some geometric visualizing in his head, and then he shakes his head. He’s looking more at the butter when Stiles eats that roll, although he gets distracted when Stiles uses his teeth to scrape off his thumb. “Killing people. That can’t be confidential, and anyway, if you’re going to kill me anyway…”

“But it might be a roundabout way of figuring out my age, and maybe I’m sensitive about such things? I mean, it is a pretty personal question,” Stiles says. He grins at the slight annoyed twitch of Peter’s mouth. “Six years or so. Last roll. The vibrator.”

Peter looks sharply at him, and then keeps looking at him. Stiles knows about how old he looks, especially when he’s making himself not smile, like right now. He gives Peter another minute, and then he’s going to eat the roll when Peter sticks out his arm. Hesitates, lips tightly pressed together, and then Peter picks up the vibrator.

It’s slim and tapered, with a flared end to keep it from slipping too far in—or out—and a battery pack hanging on a thick white cord. While he’s picking over the lubricant selection, Peter keeps fidgeting with that cord, pulling it up into his fingers and then letting it back down. It takes Stiles a second to figure out that Peter is trying to find where the controls are without being obvious about it. Very smart.

He doesn’t find them, and he’s looking considerably more reluctant when he climbs onto the bed, after a go-ahead wave from Stiles. He _could_ try and drop it—he could see if he can back out. But he doesn’t. He lubes it up, and then he slicks up two of his fingers. Spreads his knees and bends over, eyes flicking up to Stiles.

“Or do you want me to turn around?” he says.

“This is good, thanks,” Stiles says, and then he grabs an apple. Munches on it, watching Peter stretch himself out. He thinks he can pinpoint the exact moment when that makes Peter’s cock stir in the cage, that bitten-off hiss and sudden jerk of Peter’s shoulders.

Peter’s still for a few seconds after that. Then he pulls his fingers out, pushes the vibrator in. He’s clearly trying to be fast and clinical about it, but he hisses one more time, just before he pushes his hands down into the bed and lifts his drooping head. Looks at the platter.

His pupils are a little dilated, and he’s got a slight growl in his voice as he looks at the roll. “Stiles, you promised.”

“I know,” Stiles says sunnily, and keeps hold of it. “But—you grab those cuffs, you get marmalade _and_ butter on your roll.”

Peter is irritated but he doesn’t hesitate. Scoops up the cuffs, and even has one wrist in before Stiles puts out his hand.

That makes Peter pause. He looks Stiles over, then slowly lowers himself to the bed, coming off his knees and stretching out over his belly. He holds his wrists over the edge of the mattress, cuffs dangling from one.

Stiles locks that cuff, and then uses the other to pull Peter up to the top of the bed. Peter resists briefly, then takes a deep breath that he tries to hide by tucking his chin into his chest. Comes tamely along, and lets Stiles slide the chain through a ring in the wall before cuffing his other wrist. 

They’re nice cuffs, good leather, padded inside both for comfort and for a snug, unslippable fit. Cover up the raw bands that the tape had left, make a nice contrast to his pale skin. So yeah, Stiles would rather climb up for a better look.

That, and he’s not going to stretch over the bed to feed Peter. He squats up by Peter’s head and puts butter and jam on the roll, and then feeds it a pinch at a time. Peter’s mouth closes over his fingertips, not the bread, for every bite, and then pull slowly off as Peter looks up at him.

“Good,” Stiles can’t help saying. 

He runs his fingertip over Peter’s lower lip, then lifts his hand. Puts it on Peter’s elbow, rubs it up and down a few times as Peter shifts, making the chain clink, and then skates his hand towards the shoulder. Over it, down Peter’s side, and onto Peter’s hip as he reaches past the man. Pulls up the platter, then a couple more toys.

“So I lied a little bit, and this one is just one or the other. You don’t get a veto,” Stiles says. “I can tie your thighs open, or I can tie them together, and around this other vibrator.”

He holds the vibrator up. It’s a thick oblong shape. Made for women, actually, but it fits just as well when he pushes it up against Peter’s perineum. Grabs Peter’s knee, stopping the man from twisting on him, and then pulls it away.

“Oh, and you get the cupcake if I tie them open,” Stiles adds.

Peter immediately starts to say something. It sounds like a question, but, contrary to his earlier advice, Peter’s starting to get cautious. Stiles can practically hear his brain whizzing as he tries to figure out what Stiles is really planning. His eyes dart from the vibrator in Stiles’ hand to Stiles’ face and then back again.

“Open,” he finally grits out.

Stiles tosses the vibrator back on the bed. “Sweet tooth, huh. Don’t worry about your weight, do you?”

“Well, do I look like I need to?” Peter manages. He kicks a little as Stiles pulls him onto his back, then down so his arms stretch over his head, but he settles as soon as Stiles starts to reach for his gun. 

In that he stops fighting actively; his limbs are rigid enough so that Stiles has to wrestle with them, getting first one thigh-cuff—same style as the wrist cuffs—and then the other fastened, and then setting the chains that pull Peter’s legs open and also flush to the bed. Peter grunts a little, back arching as he tries to relieve the strain on his pelvis; he’s flexible enough, sure, but clearly doesn’t like it. Stiles studies him for a second, then loosens the chains a few links. Peter’s knees are still hiked up and to the side, but he can move them off the bed a couple inches.

It’ll actually be worse like that, encouraging him to keep struggling instead of just relaxing into the chains, but he’ll figure it out himself soon enough. Maybe even sooner than that; he’s fidgety all of a sudden, tugging at his bonds, almost not noticing when Stiles puts the first piece of cupcake up to his mouth.

Though when he does—he’s teasing again. Rougher, cruder, an underlying sense of urgency adding a wild edge as he sucks and licks at Stiles’ fingers. He slips a few times, too, lets his teeth catch Stiles. The first one, Stiles lets go, but the second, Stiles reaches up and starts flicking at his nipple. Peter actually abandons the cupcake entirely, throwing his head back, his weight against the chains, moaning half in protest, half in very, very reluctant pleasure.

“Don’t choke,” Stiles says, and then rubs soothingly at the nipple when Peter drags his head down and looks disbelievingly at him. “Okay. So last one. It’s either-or again, because this place has a dress code. I can pierce your nipples or your balls.”

Peter stares blankly at him for a few seconds. A sheen of sweat’s all over him, and a few drops are trickling over his temples. “What?”

“Nipples or balls,” Stiles repeats. “And don’t drag it out. I could just knock you out and stuff you under the floor, and avoid the whole issue.”

“Are you taking me somewhere?” Peter demands. He actually heaves himself so that his head and shoulders and upper back come off the bed, before the chains catch him up. He falls back with an angry hiss, then flinches in anticipation as Stiles moves. “Wait—wait—doesn’t that count? Isn’t that—shouldn’t you offer—”

“Well, that’d be worth the whole platter, won’t it?” Stiles says. Waits for the confusion in Peter’s eyes to clear a little, for the calculation to come back, and then smiles. “But no. Are you kidding me? I’m not taking you out like you’re armcandy, honestly, you think I’m self-destructive or something?”

Peter almost says something to that. Almost. His eyes flick to Stiles’ gun and then he looks back at Stiles’ face, his jaw working. He’s still trying to figure out the angle but he knows he’s running out of time.

“What do I get for—for the piercings?” he finally snarls.

“Well, balls, you _do_ get the whole platter.” Stiles waits a beat. “Nipples—no more food, but I tell you when I’m coming back. Because I need to go run an errand.”

For a long, still, second, Peter stares at him. A drop of sweat slides off Peter’s temple and onto his ear, and Peter’s eye on that side squints briefly in a flinch, but never fully closes.

“Nipples,” he mutters.

Stiles…was not expecting that. He stares back for a moment. Almost asks Peter to repeat himself, and then he just goes with it.

He gets off the bed and clears away the platter and the other sex toys, and then pulls the piercing kit out from under the bed. Starts setting it up, laying out the clamps and needles and packets of antiseptic swabs. 

Peter twists his head around and over his arm to watch, even though that position makes him pant with the effort. He keeps biting at his lip, and the first time Stiles catches him, he flinches back. Then he deliberately puts up his chin, and keeps watching.

“Where are you going?” Peter says.

“Not part of the bargain,” Stiles immediately answers. He leans over Peter, an opened antiseptic wipe in hand, and then, when Peter’s done with his flinch and bracing himself, whips out a blindfold instead. Secures that tightly over Peter’s eyes and then leans back.

Peter lets out a sound like the bastard son of a roar and pained moan, jerking his head away as soon as he can. He heaves himself from Stiles, twisting and hitching when the chains and gravity want to pull him back, and fights himself into exhaustion. Gradually, with two rallies, and finally, a defeated groan as his head lolls down.

“Stiles,” he says. His voice is raspy from the struggle, and at the same time, pitching high with growing fear. “Stiles. Stiles, you didn’t—”

“Well, I said the game was over, right?” Stiles swabs the first nipple while holding another wipe around one of the clamps, warming it up. He’s deliberately rough with the nipple, pinching and rolling it so Peter doesn’t notice him switching out for the clamp.

Then the metal registers. Peter stiffens right as Stiles punches in the needle.

To Peter’s credit, he doesn’t do anything stupid like try to buck again, and get his nipple completely torn. His head snaps back and he makes a whining sound through clenched teeth, breathing quick and fast as Stiles threads in a plain silver hoop. Then, when Stiles finally takes the clamp off, he moans lowly. “Stiles. Stiles. Take off the blindfold. Please take it off.”

“Are you scared of the dark or something?” Stiles says, already on the other nipple. “You were in her trunk for three hours and still came out ready to go.”

Peter’s jaw tightens. He squirms as Stiles works the second nipple—the less tortured one, so far—up to a tender swelling, emitting small hurt grunts and keens, but he tolerates it a little better than the first. And then, as Stiles is putting the kit away, he unclenches his jaw. Takes a deep breath, and then slowly, trembling with it, forces himself to splay into the chains.

“Fine, leave it on, but—but don’t leave,” Peter says. “Please. Please don’t, please, whatever you want—”

He moans when Stiles strokes the side of his face, moans and then rolls towards Stiles as Stiles climbs onto the bed, sits between his legs. “I got an errand,” Stiles says, sliding over him. Careful of the new piercings, gives them just a puff of breath each and then moves on as Peter shudders. Slides his hands under Peter’s head. “Half an hour. I don’t think you’re going to notice.”

“Stiles, Stiles, please, _please_ ,” Peter pants. He lets his head hang into Stiles’ palms, mouth lipping blindly at the air as Stiles teases it, blows at it from here and there. “Please. Please don’t leave, please don’t. Whatever you want, no bargain, just don’t leave.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” Stiles says, and kisses Peter.

He lets Peter take the lead on it, wanting to see what the man does, and Peter instantly yields, mouth slack and twitching. So Stiles pushes harder and Peter moves his lips tentatively against Stiles’, then with more skill as Stiles encourages him, licks tenderly at his mouth. It’s a long, hungry kiss in the end, and when Stiles finally lifts his head, Peter hangs onto his lower lip as long as possible, sucking desperately at it.

“But you realize that _that’s_ a bargain.” Stiles kisses Peter’s upper lip, dodging when Peter tries to catch him for an actual kiss, and then moves back to dig into his pocket. Pulls out his phone and swipes to the right app, then turns on the vibrator.

Peter flings himself against the chains, crying out sharply. Then he’s frantic, rocking madly up the bed till his thigh chains are groaning, trying to wrap his hands around his wrist chains to get more leverage. He shakes his head back and forth, then tips it repeatedly back, whimpering over weak attempts to beg Stiles to stop it.

The setting is a little high, Stiles decides, and runs his finger around the circle till Peter’s stopped trying to claw up the mattress. Peter’s still shuddering uncontrollably but he’s aware enough to tip his head as Stiles gets off the bed.

“Half an hour,” Stiles says. “That was the deal, Peter.”

“Stiles, _please_ ,” Peter moans raggedly. “No, no, please—”

“But hey, you were good, so one more deal,” Stiles says, turning back. He leans down and holds Peter by the jaw, giving the man a peck just where the blindfold digs into Peter’s cheek. “You listening?”

Every part of Peter’s listening, judging from how he’s stilled himself.

“You stop begging right now, and you get one favor from me for later. You can’t say don’t kill me, or let me go, all right?” Stiles says. “But anything else, you can ask for.”

Peter jerks his head in Stiles’ hand. He arches again, then whimpers, rutting his hips down hard. He’s managed to get the power cord under his ass, Stiles sees, and Stiles reaches over and tugs that free, then lays it out where it won’t get caught again. The whimpers coming from Peter are almost sobs, they’re so rough, except that they’ve shrunk so that Stiles can barely hear them.

“Yes,” Peter finally whispers. He wrenches his head aside, completely out of Stiles’ hand, and then pushes it back, searching. But Stiles has already withdrawn and Peter moans when he realizes. He wrenches himself again, a full-body one, and then subsides into a shivering mess. “Yes, yes, Stiles, you—oh, God—”

Stiles dials down the spike in the vibrator speed, then clucks at Peter. “Quiet time starts now.”

Peter bites so hard at his lip that it bleeds, then opens his mouth in a series of harsh gasps, so that the blood dribbles down the side of his chin. His lips move as if for speech, and then he shudders and doesn’t say anything.

“Good,” Stiles says, turning around.


	3. Chapter 3

Everywhere in the retreat complex is wired for video and sound recording, and obviously, first thing, Stiles and Lydia rerouted that. So he’s got a handy app on his phone for checking in on Peter as he heads up to the main building in the retreat. All the trees and the hills make everything look isolated and far away, but it only takes ten minutes to get over there.

Five minutes for idle chit-chat with the concierge, while arranging for a wake-up call, and with some other guests who are waiting to sign up for a course in safe and sane outdoor sex. One minute to grab a free coffee from the stand in the lobby, which Stiles drinks on his way back to his SUV. Two minutes to check his secure line for messages. He’s only got one, from Lydia, which says _working on it._

Stiles grins and slouches further down behind the wheel, swiping over to the cabin app. Three minutes and fifteen seconds in, Peter calmed down, no longer pulling at his bonds and just writhing in place. Two minutes after that, he settled into the current routine, which is:

  * Hold as still as possible, fighting back the hitches of his hips that make the nipple rings move, because his nipples are so swollen at this point that they lift the rings that high off his chest, even flat on his back
  * Give way to a shivering moan, then roll his head repeatedly in frustration before trying to hold still again
  * Jerk his hips and then his thighs more and more vigorously, till he’s swaying against the thigh chains, canting his pelvis enough to raise his cock mostly off the bed
  * Lose strength and flop back, whimpering as the metal cage makes his cock slap into his balls, chest muscles twitching under the flipping nipple rings
  * Repeat



It’s a show Stiles could watch all day. And Stiles is reaching for the ignition when Peter suddenly freezes mid-shudder. Then his head twists around and he calls out Stiles’ name. He pauses to listen and there’s no answer, but Stiles’ phone beeps to signal a breach in cabin security.

Stiles gets out his phone cradle and snaps it to the dash, then puts his phone in it and starts the car engine. He watches as Peter twists in the chains, looking more and more nervous, till suddenly the man’s face, what’s visible around the blindfold, clears up. Peter clears his throat and then calls out again. Not Stiles’ name.

At that point, Stiles swipes to the cabin security. He keeps tabs on the little glowing dot sneaking in through a back window as he drives down the road. It gets to the hallway just as he’s pulling the car over.

He parks at a turnoff just below the hill where the cabin is perched. The spot is hidden by the trees and can’t be seen from the cabin. Can’t say the same for the mud-splattered sports car that he walks past about twenty seconds later, which is still half in the road. Stiles checks the video feed, then decides he can move it afterward and jogs up to the cabin.

The intruder didn’t break the window, but he made a mess jimmying it up. Sighing, Stiles adds that to the to-do list and just goes in the same way, since it’s open. He walks through the room and into the hall, and then turns into the bedroom right as the new guy pulls the blindfold off of Peter.

“Hey,” Stiles says, his gun out and pointed right at the guy’s head.

Both of them turn. Peter’s eyes widen and then he shakes his head sharply. “ _Derek_ ,” he snaps.

So Derek immediately stops whatever he’s been intending to do, which most likely involved some kind of stupid frontal charge, and just glares at Stiles. “Clearly, the trackers were Peter’s idea,” Stiles says.

“Who the hell are you?” Derek says, confirming that.

“A guy with a gun,” Stiles says.

Derek…has no answer for that, except to look extremely frustrated. And under that, worried; his jaw muscle tics when Peter shifts, making the chains clank.

“Stiles,” Peter says softly, entreatingly. “Stiles. This is my nephew.”

“And you think I care because?” Stiles sighs.

“Well, you didn’t shoot him straight off, you’re curious,” Peter promptly says. He shifts again and then stifles a groan, his hips continuing to move on their own. “So—please, if you could—just let me—”

“What the hell are you doing to him?” Derek snaps. He rocks on his feet, then takes a step back towards the bed. His hand flicks out towards Peter, then balls up in a fist at his hip.

Stiles sighs again and reaches into his pocket. Lowers his gun at the same time, and when Derek predictably rushes him, he pulls out the taser and nails the man. Side-steps as Derek convulses and falls, and then pulls his phone out and turns off Peter’s vibrator. Then he puts his phone back and walks across the room, ignoring Peter’s alarmed questions. He digs through the drawers till he finds more cuffs and pulls out two pairs.

Takes them back over to Derek, who’s rolled onto his side and is struggling to get up, even though his legs are still jerking erratically. He grabs Derek’s wrist, cuffs it and pulls it behind his back, and then strong-arms the shaky man over to the bed. Bends him over it, cuffs his other wrist, and then grabs him by the knees and heaves him up. Cuffs his ankles when they come up, and then pulls him by the wrists till Stiles can fasten that chain to the footboard. Then he finishes by reaching over and pulling out the taser studs from Derek’s chest.

Derek’s snarling and cursing the whole time, but Peter’s silent and watchful. Peter tenses when Stiles turns towards him, then breathes out slowly as Stiles climbs onto the bed by him. Stiles unfastens one of the thigh cuffs and Peter raises his knee, then jerks it back down, wincing. He works it back up much more slowly as Stiles gets off, goes around, and then unlocks the other thigh cuff.

“Half an hour,” Stiles says. “And I’ll be fair, and note that you didn’t start begging till it was up.”

Peter smiles tightly. “Thank you.”

“Fuck fair, what the hell is this?” Derek snaps.

“Well, I’m deciding what to do with you,” Stiles says. He gets on the bed again, then grabs Peter’s knee as Peter tries to haul himself up against the wall. Holds onto that as he gets out his phone, tilting it so Peter can see him pull up the vibrator app. “You left your car and you fucked up the window, and God knows what else. I’m probably going to have to drive you over to the next town before I can dump you.”

“Stiles,” Peter snaps. Then he catches himself, and tries again, much more softly. “Stiles. Derek’s an idiot, don’t listen to him.”

Derek’s nostrils flare in rage. He pushes himself up on his arms and knees, and for a second Stiles thinks he’s going to have to shoot the moron anyway.

But no, Derek apparently _is_ related to Peter, because he just narrows his eyes and then slumps against the footboard. He doesn’t like it but he’s got too many interesting things to focus on; his eyes keep darting over to Peter, lingering on the nipple piercings.

“Good,” Stiles says, and Peter openly sighs in relief. “But all that shit I just mentioned?”

He turns the vibrator back on. Peter cries out, banging himself into the wall as he twists around. His head goes down and he stares blankly at his knees, then gets it. Shakes his head hard, pulling his legs up harder, trying to grab at that power cord. He’s almost swung it into his fingers when Stiles turns off the vibrator and Peter goes limp, knotted up against the ring where his hands are bound.

Derek had flung himself forward at Peter’s cry, eyes wide with alarm and anger, and then had flopped face-first into the bed. He wrenches back up onto his knees, looking disgustedly at Stiles. “Great, another psycho,” he mutters.

“If you’re referring to Kate Argent,” Stiles starts, and then stops because that is a _very_ complex expression on Derek’s face. “Anyway.”

“That favor,” Peter abruptly says. He slowly uncurls himself. Hisses as a nipple ring brushes his arm, and then he contorts himself so that he can lean over and get as close to Stiles as he can, looking up with big, pleading eyes. “Stiles. You said if I kept quiet, I got a favor.”

Stiles looks at him, then at Derek. “Really? Him? I mean…yeah, I dig the asshole glamor boy thing, but—”

“Peter, what are you doing?” Derek hisses.

“Don’t kill him,” Peter says firmly.

Derek looks between the two of them. Then at Peter, his eyes going from nipple rings to vibrator power cord to cock cage. He manages to put two and two together, and breathes in sharply. Does not snarl at Peter to not do it, it’s not worth it, or whatever other stupid chivalrous nonsense. Instead he just looks—really, intensely fixated on Peter. It’s like they’re cuing each other up for something and Derek’s waiting for his turn.

Stiles considers that for a couple minutes, while Peter shows increasing signs of nervousness, and then decides that they don’t have any other escape plan in mind. After all, Derek was stupid enough to just come on his own, instead of trying to call for help—or even talking to the retreat staff, like a normal person, even if they would’ve immediately let Stiles know—and Peter’s damn near strangling himself, way too intent on Stiles’ answer to be scheming.

“Give me your car keys,” Stiles says to Derek.

Derek glances at Peter, who nods, sagging back against the wall. Grimacing, Derek slowly hitches himself around so that he can scratch at his jeans. He tries twice to get into the pocket, then gets it on the third try and pulls out his keyring and tosses it over.

They fall about a foot short, so Stiles uses the heel of his foot to pull them the rest of the way and then picks them up. He lets them jingle from his hand, then wraps his fingers around them. “Good,” he says.

He turns towards Peter, who hesitates. Does _not_ look over at Derek, but a flash of resentment and worry goes over his face, followed very closely by a hard, challenging glint. It’s a little perverse, too, and that’s probably why Peter closes his eyes when Stiles grabs him by the throat, hauling him in for a hard, messy kiss.

There’s a little sharp inhale from Derek and Peter hitches, then moans loudly. Hitches for real when Stiles brushes a fingertip over one nipple. Stiles sucks at his lower lip, right where Peter’s bitten through it, and then lets him go. Drops the hand to his arm, runs down it to the cuffs. Thinks about how Derek had stared at Peter again.

He uncuffs one of Peter’s wrists and pulls the chain out of the ring, then drags him across the bed and recuffs him to the same ring Derek’s on. Then Stiles goes out to tidy up.

* * *

The window actually isn’t too bad when Stiles checks it again, mostly damage to the paint. Stiles already knows where all the supplies on the place are located and decides he’ll just do a spot fix, and raids a janitor’s closet for the matching shade. And then he considers Derek’s car. Which is flashy as hell, even covered in mud, and God knows who spotted it.

Luckily for Derek, the retreat regularly hosts parties and tonight happens to be a party night. Unluckily for Derek, the clubhouse is way on the other side, so Stiles has to drive his damn car over, slip it into the back of the lot, and then sweet-talk another guest into giving him a ride back. Without getting into blowjob tangents because, fun as that’d be, he doesn’t want to be _that_ memorable.

Anyway, he’s got his own fun back in his cabin. And it’s been a good couple hours by the time he returns. Stiles, for all practical purposes, nocturnal at this point, but he’s starting to get a little tired. He’d been checking on the pair of them via the app, but just quick flashes, enough to tell that they were just talking, and he hopes that that’s still the case.

Though he’s reloaded the taser anyway, and he’s got that in hand when he steps into the bedroom. Where Derek and Peter are making out.

Actually, a lot more than that, Stiles realizes as he gets closer. Derek’s jeans are undone and shoved down to his knees, and his cock’s in Peter’s hands, along with—oh, the vibrator. They’ve pulled it out of Peter, and Peter’s jabbing the tip up under Derek’s legs, against the other man’s perineum, where his chained hands can’t reach. The vibrator may not be on, but judging from how Derek’s groaning and rocking his hips, just good old pointed pressure is good enough.

Peter sees Stiles right away, peering around Derek’s head. He pushes up so that their heads twist and Stiles gets a glimpse of their joined mouths, sealed tightly together, then slides back against the footboard. Derek leans after him, sucking at Peter’s mouth so when they break apart, it’s with a loud pop. His head doesn’t lift, he just keeps on sucking, working down Peter’s jaw to Peter’s neck, and then farther. Over the point of Peter’s shoulder—looking up at Stiles at that point, angrier than his uncle but just as challenging—and then down over Peter’s chest.

Derek raises his head then. He pants right over Peter’s nipple, staring at Stiles, his ass pushing harder and more violently up behind him, and then he crushes his head down onto Peter’s pectoral. Right beside the nipple, gasping so hard that Stiles can see the ring flutter a little with the force of it, his face screwing up as he climaxes.

Shuddering, Derek ducks under Peter’s arms and slides down his uncle to nearly the belly. He catches himself at that point, rising as Stiles comes over, and then he moves slightly to the side. Reveals a splatter of come on Peter’s stomach that he then proceeds to lick up, still looking at Stiles.

“I’ve talked Derek into being more cooperative,” Peter says simply. He looks and sounds calm, but when Stiles lays a couple fingers on his shoulder, it’s trembling uncontrollably, if minutely. The tremble gets a little more obvious as Stiles rubs his fingers up and down the side of his neck, where Derek was just sucking. “He’s—he didn’t quite understand what he walked in on.”

“Don’t tell me you told him we just hooked up somewhere,” Stiles says incredulously.

No, Peter did not, and Derek’s still pissed about it. He doesn’t snarl but he looks at Stiles’ throat like he’s imagining in excruciating detail how he’d like to dissect it. Which maybe explains why Peter might work so hard to keep the man around.

Well, that, and Derek is very attractive himself. Early twenties, somewhere between Peter and Stiles in build but definitely taller than either, with a face that slides very easily between anger and arousal, and seems built for both. “He said you killed Kate,” he mutters.

“Yep.” Stiles slides his fingers up into Peter’s hair, pulling the man’s head onto his shoulder. He leans over the footboard and, when Derek stifles a protesting snarl, reaches over and grabs Derek under the jaw. Waits through the couple of sharp tugs, then wrenches him over so he’s looking his uncle in the eye. Then pushes his head down till it’s level with Peter’s cock. “Killed her, found Peter here, and jerked him off right over her corpse. She wasn’t an old girlfriend or something, was she?”

Both Peter and Derek twitch. Then Derek twists his head against the weight of Stiles’ hand, looking up. He’s vicious and it’s almost _gleeful_ , how much so, when he smiles. “Yeah, actually.”

“Wow. Okay, you’re fucked up,” Stiles says. He blinks a few times, then shrugs. “Whatever, old news, clearly. So, Peter, how much do you want to come before I go to bed?”

“Does it involve talking me into something?” Derek says, before Peter can answer. He’s measuring up Stiles now, and it might not be as instinctive as with Peter, but there’s some similarity in…in the thoughtfulness of it, and how it’s a little bit unexpected, given the way Derek looks. “Because he went through the dress code with me.”

There’s a likeness in the sarcasm too. Peter’s mouth twitches in appreciation before he remembers he needs to be the sensible one, and keep Stiles from killing them. He tries for the crude distraction, tipping his head up against Stiles’ shoulder and almost touching Stiles’ jaw with his mouth. “I would like that very much,” he murmurs. “But I should ask after the rules first, I think.”

“No rules, really. And dress code can wait for the morning,” Stiles says. He glances over at Derek, then reaches down and unlocks Derek’s cuffs. “Just don’t be stupid.”

Then he tosses Derek the key to the cock cage. Derek barely grabs it, juggling the tiny thing for a second, and then looks curiously at it. He needs Peter’s sharp hiss to figure it out, but when he does, his shoulders jerk and his head goes up. He stares hard at Stiles, till Peter hisses at him again, and then he grunts thoughtfully to himself.

Derek looks at Peter and holds his uncle’s gaze as he scoots slowly back from the footboard. Peter’s face almost spasms, he’s so shocked and irritated, and then something gets through to him. He still looks irritated, but he slides off Stiles’ shoulder. Glances at Stiles to check, then pushes himself away from the footboard, stretching out on his back again. He winces a little as his arms stretch over his head, then moves back towards Stiles, enough so that he can bend his elbows.

Peter spreads his knees and Derek settles easily between them. He unlocks the cage and sets it aside, snorting a little as Peter humps his hips urgently upwards. Then he swings back. He rubs his thumbs curiously around the base of Peter’s cock, feeling at the bare skin as it quickly flushes; Peter’s already moaning and at that his head jerks backwards, tipping till he’s looking blindly in Stiles’ direction. It doesn’t seem to be a play, that one, just Peter trying to ease off on his self-control and instead shattering through it.

A flicker of concern crosses Derek’s face, followed by one of anger. But he doesn’t look at Stiles. Just rolls back his shoulders and drops down and swallows Peter’s cock like he’s just taking an especially long breath.

“Do this a lot, huh,” Stiles says, crossing to the side of the bed.

Derek starts to pull off Peter’s cock, his face trying to grimace around it, but Peter shoves his groin up, moans going to ragged gasps, and then to whimpers that Derek apparently isn’t used to, going by how he twists back in alarm. He grunts absently, taking it _extremely_ well that Peter’s essentially fucking his mouth, and then pushes Peter’s hips down and goes back to sucking.

“So you were both going after Kate,” Stiles continues. He gets up onto the bed, next to Derek, whose eyes flick over. Pats Derek’s hand when it doesn’t lift and shove him away, like Derek obviously wants to do, and then again, when it curls into a fist. “I’m gonna guess that you’re actually supposed to be dead, too?”

Peter glances down and he’s going to interrupt, distract Stiles, but Derek stops sucking him and instead he whines desperately, thrusting upwards so hard that this time Derek gags. Derek pulls off, dragging Peter down roughly by the thighs as Peter tries to follow, and then plunges his mouth back over Peter’s cock. He can’t quite get all the way down again but he slurps and sucks to make up for it, till his spit’s starting to pool at the bottom of Peter’s cock.

“And you died in the fire too? Did _anyone_ in your family actually die in that?” Stiles says.

He remembers Peter saying that he heard the screaming, but he’s got a guess and Derek goes a long way to confirming it when he jerks off Peter’s cock, snarling at Stiles. “Yes, you goddamn—”

“ _Derek_ ,” Peter pleads.

And while Derek’s hesitating, trying to decide what to do, Stiles reaches over and flicks Peter’s nipple ring. Peter twists violently, almost lifting his whole torso off the bed, and then falls back just as hard. He comes right on Derek’s chin and mouth, whining so thin it’s a keen.

Derek whips his head back around and a last spurt gets him high on the cheek, almost in his eye. He looks up at Peter, who’s lolling, dazed and weak, and then who senses it and somehow gets his head around to look down. They’re both panting, for different reasons but with the same bone-shaking force.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and Derek’s head swings back to him.

Peter mouths his name urgently, lacking enough breath to actually speak. Derek’s shoulders tense like he heard it anyway, but he keeps staring at Stiles. He wipes slowly at his face with his hand.

“What do you want?” he finally says, frowning. He pauses. “What point is there with keeping us around?”

“Aside from seeing how often you can try and talk me into shooting you in what, ten minutes since I came back?” Stiles says, over Peter’s warning hiss. He shrugs. “What are you going to do? You know, since the Argents are all dead?”

Derek’s brows twitch. “You mean besides sit here and wonder when you’re going to fuck us?”

Stiles grins. Gives Peter, who is looking like he’ll dislocate a shoulder any minute now in exasperated panic, a steadying pat on the hip, and then looks Derek up and down. The other man tenses but he’s also looking for something, and when Stiles gives him an appreciative nod, a tiny flash of satisfaction goes over Derek’s face. Bitter but real.

No way that a fire did all that to them, no matter who died it in it, Stiles thinks. “Nice thought, Derek, but let’s not rush things,” he says. “So yeah. If your uncle hadn’t underestimated Kate—well, honestly, if that had happened I probably would’ve just ended up killing him and Kate. So okay, let’s pretend I’m not as good at my job as I am, and you guys had gotten her.”

Derek looks a little pointedly at Stiles’ erection, which, yeah, is uncomfortable, but Stiles did have that fantastic blowjob earlier from Peter, and then before that, the fun near-firebomb death orgasm. So he can outwait a stare, no matter how hot the man giving it is. Hot and mad.

“I don’t know,” Derek says abruptly, just as Peter says: “We were going on vacation.”

They glance at each other. Peter’s wary and Derek is deep in the grips of this aggressive defiance, and then Derek shrugs.

“Yeah, so we were going to not kill people for a while, somewhere else,” he says. “What that was supposed to be like…well, you’re not going to let us find out, are you?”

“Depends,” Stiles says, and they both go alert, as bad as they try to hide it. Then they tense as he takes his gun out of its holster, cradles its muzzle in his other hand. “Well, I’m not going to make up my mind tonight, I already told Peter that. So why don’t you tell me a bedtime story?”

Derek laughs a little, then gets hold of himself. He still looks helplessly incredulous, despite his uncle’s glower. “Seriously? I can’t just suck you off?” He pauses and looks Stiles over. “I’m a lot better at that.”

“Well, I can believe that,” Stiles says. He taps his gun against his palm, then motions for Derek to turn around.

First Derek’s eyes narrow, and then his jaw tightens. Then he does it, his hands balling up into fists. Stiles left the cuffs hanging from one wrist and that’s handy, since now he just needs to catch the loose one and pull it, and Derek gets it. Puts his hands stiffly behind his back for Stiles to recuff them there.

He starts sharply when Stiles then pushes him out of the way, then twists around and loses his balance. Lands on his hip and one elbow, and sensibly stays that way as Stiles uncuffs Peter from the footboard, twists his arms behind him and rebinds them.

Both of them watch Stiles nervously as Stiles pushes himself up to the top of the bed, leaning against the wall. Stiles undoes his jeans and pulls out his cock, then props his gun-hand up on his bent knee. “Peter already blew me earlier, and I have to admit it was really good,” he says. “Definitely top ten.”

Even in the middle of trying to plot and worrying about Derek’s hot head, Peter manages to be a little miffed. But he doesn’t say anything. Just looks it.

“So you want to compare?” Derek says, brow raised.

“Is this an offer?” Peter says, almost at the same time.

“More like a dare,” Stiles says. He fingers his cock, then reaches over and gets a tube of lube from the dresser. Tosses it up and down a few times before flipping it around to where he can flick off—but he doesn’t yet—the top. “So I can just jerk myself off, I guess. Or you could suck me off, and see if it’s so good I drop the gun, pass out, you know, that kind of thing—”

He probably didn’t even need to elaborate on all the possibilities. He’s barely finished the word ‘suck’ and Derek is already moving over. At an awkward scoot, what with his jeans tangled around his knees on top of his ankle cuffs, but he’s going fast.

Too fast to catch Peter’s hiss, and then Peter’s irritated head bob-aborted forward lunge combo. So Peter almost certainly remembers Stiles talking about not being self-destructive, but he must not have passed that bit onto Derek. He’s visibly kicking himself, glowering at his nephew, and then his head goes up and he stares at Stiles.

Stiles shrugs. Peter’s lips tighten. Even if they’re fucking, he and Derek have an odd vibe, not exactly…affectionate, but whatever it is, it runs a lot deeper than the insults and side looks they throw around like so much litter.

And Peter has a pretty complicated relationship just with _that_ , never mind Derek. But he works himself over, pushing up next to where Derek’s mouthing at the head of Stiles’ cock. He looks at Stiles a last time, then bends down. Pauses, probably due to the nipple rings brushing something, and then gingerly stretches out and licks at the side of Stiles’ cock. Then again.

Then Derek notices what Peter’s doing. His shoulders jerk sharply and he almost growls around Stiles. Almost. His face gets there, scowl flexing oddly around the full mouth, and then he seems to remember exactly what’s making his mouth full. His sucking slows.

Stiles shifts back on his hips and bumps Derek’s shoulder with his leg. Derek’s eyes snap up angrily, then narrow. He tightens his lips, till he’s not just a hot, pulling hole; he’s a hot, velvet-tight one, like a burning, silky stroke all up and down Stiles’ cock. His tongue flicks across Stiles’ frenulum as he draws back, then presses flat into the sensitive muscle as he forces himself up, pushing Peter entirely off Stiles’ cock.

It’s good enough that Stiles rocks without thinking, knocking his leg into Peter, who in turn slides heavily into Derek. Who grunts irritably, shoving back, and then grunts again, pleased with himself as he works over Stiles’ cock. He goes all the way up till his lips are nestling into Stiles’ curly hairs, then pulls sharply back as Stiles groans.

Peter twists himself off of Derek, biting down on an irritated comment. He tries to push back in, but Derek shoves him again, shoulder sliding _under_ Peter. Hitting a nipple, clearly; Peter nearly chokes, sucking back his breath so fast. Then he lets his weight swing him back onto Derek, smacking hard into Derek’s shoulder. He’s wincing, trying to curl his chest in to protect his nipples, but he doesn’t stop till he gets his head over and then he’s got his teeth fastened in Derek’s shoulder.

Derek hisses, which does amazing things to his throat as he swallows Stiles’ cock down again. Stiles drops the lube, then puts his now free hand down and digs deep into the sheets, trying to brace himself. Then he stops, and Derek does that smug grunt again. Absolutely no poker face, this one, for all that he seems to have a limited range of expressions from angry to angry sullen to angry worried.

So Stiles just rides Derek’s mouth, letting his hips roll. He watches Peter instead, watches his mouth work up Derek’s shoulder, teeth dragging so hard that they’re almost ripping Derek’s shirt. They’re pulling the cloth out, so thin it’s going translucent, and—there’s something under it. Stiles cranes his head, just as Peter gets his mouth over Derek’s shirt-collar, and then he sees matte black marks stretching over Derek’s skin.

That’s what Peter is going for, with his distraction tactics. It’s a tattoo, a big one, some kind of curvy thing that goes at the very least from shoulderblade to shoulderblade, and then who knows how far down Derek’s back. Peter pins Derek’s shirt out of the way with his collar and then attacks it with his mouth, raking and sucking the skin up against his teeth till the inked spots rise slightly from the rest of the back.

Derek works his shoulders a few times, like he’s trying to get Peter off, and then abruptly gives up, throat shuddering about the head of Stiles’ cock as he sputters out a whine. Then he starts bowing up into Peter’s mouth, dragging himself over and over Peter’s teeth. His own mouth gets more erratic, he’s coughing as much as he’s sucking, though he doesn’t stop deep-throating Stiles.

He’s still managing to check on Stiles, his eyes flicking up. And then they stay there, watching as Stiles wrenches at the bedsheets, trying to keep his breath ahead of the game. They’re watching and waiting, just like some wild animal waiting for a straggler to fall behind, and God, that is so goddamn _nasty_. Stiles fucks into Derek’s mouth, staring back at it, diving right into all that furious heat, and—

—Derek runs his tongue across Stiles’ cock head again. Stiles feels himself tipping and he laughs because he knows Derek’s eyes are on him. He can barely see but he knows where everything is. Knows where he is, knows where Derek is. Knows where his gun is.

He grabs at Derek’s jaw, gets it. Yanks his cock free and then wrenches the other man over at the same time, pulling at jaw and neck and then shoulder to do it. Tosses himself around, gets his leg over, straddles down. Presses his cock into Derek’s belly, pushes his gun up under Derek’s chin, and comes hard. Looking right into Derek’s eyes.

Stiles can’t see for a couple seconds. He forces his eyes to stay wide, to not narrow and give him away, and keeps pushing the gun up. When his vision does come back, he looks down and he’s got Derek’s head forced so high up that the man’s trembling in pain. Another inch and Derek’s neck would snap.

He takes the gun away. Somebody heaves a huge sigh of relief and it’s not Derek. Stiles turns and Peter’s sagging into the bed, shaking like somebody’s given him an electric shock. He’s shaking so hard he can’t stop when he realizes Stiles is looking at him, even though he jerks forward like he’s trying to stiffen up. Then he gives up, and just…shivers, completely exhausted.

Stiles looks back at Derek, who’s shaking quite a bit himself, as if he’s finally gotten that sheer rage isn’t going to get him through this one. He swallows hard, then again, except he also tries to breathe hard at the same time, and so it ends up as a kind of stuttering gasp.

“Well, I’ll give you this, that’s going to put me out for the night. Day. Whatever,” Stiles says.

He’s still got the gun by Derek’s head. He starts to lift it, because he’s getting up, and Derek’s head turns towards it. Derek looks at it, then past it to Stiles, and as it rises over him, he lifts his chin a little. Shows that deep red mark on the underside of his chin where it dug in, and when Stiles takes his eyes off it, he finds Derek watching him again.

After a second, Stiles smiles and nods. He gets off Derek and the bed. Absently does up his jeans, stalling so his knees will go back to normal, and then…well, they _were_ good.

He pops into the bathroom for a few times, then comes back and rechains them, wrists over their heads and at the top of the bed. Then he cuts the clothes off of Derek, using a towel to wipe off the bits of come that didn’t land on those. Bundles them up for trash and pulls out the tube of antibiotic ointment.

Peter braces himself as Stiles’ fingers come near his nipples. Then he…actually forgets to hiss, doesn’t even wince, because he’s so thrown by Stiles just dabbing on the ointment, quick and careful, and nothing else. 

“Well, it’s not fun if they fall off from gangrene, is it?” Stiles says.

“No,” Peter says after a long pause. “Stiles?”

He’s already turned over to Derek, dotting the taser marks with the ointment while Derek scowls uncertainly, but he twists around. “Yeah?”

“Are we—are we sleeping here?” Peter asks.

“I’ll blow you again if we can stay together,” Derek throws in. Much to Peter’s mingled relief and irritation.

Stiles sits back, cleaning off his fingers with the towel. “Yeah,” he finally says.

He caps the ointment and does a little miscellaneous tidying up. And then he’s going to leave, but Derek calls after him this time.

“If we—say we need something,” Derek says. “You give a shit?”

“Well, you can always try screaming, and see,” Stiles says, and this time he walks out without stopping.

* * *

Message two from Lydia: _how do you find these messes, you moron. also, if you haven’t yet, don’t kill anybody_.

So Stiles texts her back that he’s got double the work anyway, and then goes to sleep in the other bedroom with a light heart.

He’s not out for more than four hours or so, which takes him up to mid-morning. He doesn’t need a lot of rest these days, and when he does get it, he prefers to do it in short blocks with activity in between. Any longer than four hours and his sleep tends to get very…disturbing.

Anyway, when he pokes his head in, Derek and Peter are arguing about yelling for him, so it works out just fine. Apparently, nature’s calling for both of them.

Peter’s a little subdued and Stiles eyes him suspiciously till they get into the bathroom and the man starts eyeing the toilet water. He perks up a lot after he’s had his turn at the toilet and a glass of water, and settles into his spot, chained by the wrists to the lower towel rack, to watch Stiles bring Derek up to dress code.

Derek blinked hard, then shrugged when Stiles held Peter’s cock for him at the toilet. Then he didn’t so much as twitch as Stiles helped him relieve himself, then shoved him into the shower for a scrub down. He squirms a little as Stiles works over his back, but the shower puff’s obviously not rough enough, compared to teeth.

“What is this?” Stiles says, tracing part of the tattoo.

“A triskelion,” Peter says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay, my bad, I should’ve clarified. I know what it is, but what’s the point of it? Please don’t tell me it’s just because it looked cool.”

So nipples aren’t a go-to spot for Derek, and when the scrubbing starts to get low down, Derek automatically moves around so he’s resting on his chained hands and his knees, tilting his ass for it. He follows the razor with his eyes, but it’s just understandable wariness, without nearly the anxiety Peter had showed.

“It’s family history,” Derek mutters as he repositions. His buttocks tense very slightly at the first touch of the razor, then relax. “Just something we’ve always used.”

“I don’t think you’ve done _this_ before, but you’ve done a lot of freaky stuff, haven’t you?” Stiles finally has to say.

Derek drops his head and raises his ass till he’s looking at Stiles through his legs. He isn’t exactly smug, but he is annoyingly blasé. “Peter talks me into a lot of bad ideas.”

“Blame it on me, as usual,” Peter mutters.

The two of them don’t look at each other, but they don’t have to. Derek makes a face and Peter sighs heavily at the exact same time.

“Like what?” Stiles asks, amused in spite of himself.

He slides his fingers down between Derek’s buttocks at the same time, gathering up foam filled with hair shavings, then swipes them up in a curve to catch a falling clump of suds. That gets him a slight shiver, but Derek’s still pretty whatever about it all. The guy rearranges himself again as Stiles washes off his fingers, sliding under the chain hanging between the walls so he’s flat on his back, hands caught up over his face. He looks at Stiles through the frame of his bound arms, all sullen challenge.

“Well, this,” Derek says.

Peter’s being quiet again, though when Stiles checks, he’s blatantly preoccupied by Derek’s spread legs. Half-hard, and then Stiles looks back at Derek and Derek’s just turning his head back from looking at Peter, too.

A flash of irritation goes through Stiles. He’s going to do something—and then he looks at Derek again. Absently squeezes lather out of the shower puff, then grins as he kneels down and lathers up Derek’s groin.

“I don’t think this _really_ counts as talking you into it, does it?” Stiles says. He drags his fingers around Derek’s twitching but not quite rising cock, digging his fingers into the wet curls he can feel beneath the foam. “Come on, spill. I haven’t really gotten to see that side of him yet, he’s been making me do all the work.”

“What?” Peter spits out disbelievingly. Then he sucks in his breath. His feet make little slapping noises against the tile as he presses back into the wall.

Ignoring him, Stiles wipes his hand clean on Derek’s thigh and studies the mounds of suds. Then he levels off a spot to the left of Derek’s cock, and starts shaving there. “Yeah, you heard me. I mean, first I had to kind of talk him into getting off by your old girlfriend’s body. He got a little cold feet when I found the bugs on him, for some reason. Maybe because I had a knife to his throat.”

The last part makes Derek jerk his head up, though his lower half stays commendably still. Nice abs he’s crunching; Stiles runs his hand up that high, feeling them out, and then moves his fingers back. Pulls a patch of skin taut so he can get the razor as close as possible to the roots.

“We were right over her, you know. She still looked pretty good, if you go for that sort of thing. You know, blonde tart with the rack, that. I didn’t mess her up or anything, just broke her neck.” Stiles rubs his thumb over the newly-bared skin as he rinses off the blade, watching the pinked skin blush even more under the friction. Then he twists his hand over, using his knuckles to hold back Derek’s cock as he shaves under it. “Had my hand down your uncle’s pants. Really cute, that, sticking one there. Was that your idea of a goodbye kiss?”

“Shut up,” Derek mutters. He’s not looking at Stiles. Trying not to look at Stiles, turning his face into his arm, but his eyes keep drifting back. Those firm belly muscles of his are starting to jump.

“Yeah, I know that model pretty well. You did buy a good one. Break it and you can still pick it up through the cellphone towers,” Stiles says. He runs the razor in a rough half-circle at the very edge of Derek’s groin, then neatens up as he works in towards the man’s cock. “And obviously, can stand a little bit of moisture. Kind of had to, your uncle came all over himself. And then I made him sit in it. Zipped him back up in his own mess, let him soak in it while I buried her.”

Derek’s knees jerk inwards, then stop as he feels the razor bite into his thigh. He tightens his lips, then drops his head back as Stiles resumes shaving him. Closes his eyes and rolls his head a little from side to side. “Shut up, shut up, shut—”

“Stiles,” Peter starts.

“Shut up,” Stiles says. He grabs a bit of lather from the very top and dabs it over the cut on Derek’s leg, which finally earns him a hiss, and then rinses off the spot. “So, yeah, speaking of. He’s pretty persuasive even without the talking. I mean, he was trying to suck me off with a piece of tape over his mouth. And I had a dead body, okay, and I do at least _try_ and be professional, but he worked it pretty good. Down on his knees, rubbing up against me with those big blue eyes—you ever see that yourself? Firsthand?”

Just as Derek’s head goes up, Stiles grabs Derek’s balls. He waits for the man to freeze and then swings them to the side, pressing them roughly out of the way as he works the razor around and under them. Derek fights with himself through it, muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing and bulging as he tries to decide whether to lie down and seethe, or sit up and get cut again.

“No? Wow, that’s a shame.” Stiles hefts Derek’s scrotum a couple times, then applies the razor to them. “In that case, this must be a real trip for you, getting to see him in all sorts of new positions. You liked what you walked in on, right? Him on the bed? All opened up like the best gift ever?”

“I’d like it if you stopped talking,” Derek grates out.

But Derek’s cock is half-mast and still going, and the way his voice trails off says he knows it. He’s not looking at Peter, anyway. He’s looking at Stiles. His hips are hitching along with the cadence of Stiles’ words, and he’s sucking in his breath when Stiles’ fingers are playing along his balls and then further back, over his freshly-shaved perineum, and he’s looking and he’s mad, mad and listening anyway.

Talk him into it. As if Stiles started out with a gun in his hand. That was his first skill and he still thinks it’s his best.

“Did you want me to make you fuck him? Is that it? I’m sorry, did I miss my cue?” Stiles says, rasping the razor across the bottom of Derek’s scrotum. Not hard enough to cut but hard enough to sting. “Sorry, Derek, had no idea you dream about fucking the shit out of your uncle. What is it, exactly? Do you get him up against a wall? Over the furniture? Don’t tell me it’s dreamy rose petals in bed, come on, you liked the gun last night as much as I did.”

“Shit,” Derek says under his breath, like it’s punched out of him. He twists his head around, then back. Looks at Stiles like he’s been caught out with a rock in his hand next to a broken window, and then he twists again, wrenching himself up against the chains. “Shit, shit, _fuck_ —”

“So let me guess, he’s being an asshole to you, but you get him for once. You get him, you rough him up, pin him down, he’s begging for it. Not so smarmy now, just gagging for it, for you, begging for you to fuck him.” Stiles wraps his hand around Derek’s cock. It’s hard enough now that he doesn’t have to hold it to keep it up, but he does anyway. Finishes up with the shaving and then just sits there, holds Derek’s cock and watches him try and fail to not start panting. “And you have a gun on him, right? Not because you need it, he’d lay out for you anyway, just push up that tight ass for your cock, but you’ve got it because you _want_ it.”

“Fuck.” Derek opens his eyes wide. They’re wild, almost blind with it, and then he jerks back as if he forgets where his cock is.

Stiles lets the man stop himself, then climbs over him, still holding Derek’s cock. Gives it a squeeze or two, too, making Derek suck his breath so hard it’s almost a scream. He sticks the razor between two fingers and then puts that hand down on Derek’s chest, blade only a few inches from a nipple. Derek’s anxious about it _now_ , eyes flicking frantically between there and…yeah, Stiles’ mouth.

“You hold him down with that, with the gun. Right?” Stiles is glad he just bothered with sweatpants this morning, because they’re easy to slide off his hips. He twists one leg out, leaves it on the other, and then lets go of Derek’s cock, bends down to dig the lube out of the pocket. And so he can get near Derek, almost close enough for Derek to smash his face with the chain. “Do you think about slapping him with one? You know, like you’re thinking about with me?”

Derek inhales sharply. He’s rolling his hips, little stiff cut-off rolls that keep coming no matter how bad he doesn’t want to push his cock into Stiles. His eyes track the lube as Stiles pulls the cap off with his teeth, then one-handed squirts the tube’s contents onto his fingers. Then they start to close as Stiles sits up, moves that hand behind himself. He breathes like he’s got a gym’s worth of weights on his chest.

“So, you fuck him with the gun on him, don’t you? By his head?” Stiles laughs to cover up the slight twist of pain as he pushes a finger into himself. 

He waits for Derek’s eyes to close completely and then glances over at Peter, who—sees what he’s doing but who might as well be stone, for all that he appears capable of moving. Stone except for that raging hard-on between his legs, and he isn’t even aware enough to be frustrated that his hands are chained too far to reach it, he’s staring so hard at them.

“Or his _mouth_ , maybe?” Stiles says.

Derek’s face twists. He slaps his head to one side, grimaces again, then opens his eyes. Slowly looks confused, looking up at Stiles. His head gradually floats back straight and he frowns, gaze flicking up and then down. Behind Stiles, well, through Stiles, really. He moves his knees like he’s checking for phantom fingers, and then he goes stiff, eyes huge as he looks back up at Stiles’ face.

“No, you know what, I bet you just lie back. Just like this, right, lie down on your back and you make him sit on you.” Stiles is grunting now, hurrying a little, but hey, if he couldn’t take pain himself, he never would’ve gotten this far. He works his ass with three fingers, then pulls them out. Breathes in deeply, then grins down at the man under him. Scoots up and grabs Derek’s cock again, points it into his hole and just…touches at the head. Lets it rub at him. “You make him fuck himself on you. That’s what the gun’s for, to make him do it for once. Make him do the work. That’s it, right? That’s—”

“Yes. _Yes_ , God, goddamn it, yes, now just—” Derek hisses, bucking up.

“Ah-ah-no.” The razor’s still pressed against Derek’s chest. Stiles flexes his fingers, reminds Derek about that. Doesn’t cut him yet.

Derek stares at him, panting openmouthed, shifting helplessly under Stiles even as the razor swings closer and closer to his nipple. His lips twitch and he groans, then forcibly chokes that off. “Fuck, _what_? What? You want me to—to ask for it or something? Well, fuck, _please_ ,” he snarls.

“You’re not that great at begging,” Stiles says, and then he slides all the way down on Derek’s cock. He has to just swallow for a second or two, adjusting, riding through the pain into the good part, and then he snickers as he breathes out. “Sound like you want to kill me.”

“Because I do,” Derek snaps. Then his head thumps back and he shudders, shoving his hips desperately up into Stiles’ slow rocking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Stiles, fuck, please.”

“A little better. But hey, I’m not going to try and get a cat out of a dog,” Stiles says. He fucks himself on Derek for a few more thrusts, then stops. And bends over and presses all his weight onto his hand on Derek’s chest when the other man tries to keep it going. “So just tell me something Peter talked you into.”

“I—” Peter says.

Stiles picks the razor off Derek and swings it out in a cutting gesture. Peter shuts up.

He’s still looking at Derek, and Derek’s still looking at him. Derek attempts to catch his breath, then lets his head drop back as he gives up and bursts into a series of ragged gasps. “Goddamn it,” he mutters. “Fuck. Fine. He—he talked me into staying dead, when they screwed up the body count.”

“With the fire?” Stiles says.

“Yeah.” Derek groans deep in his chest as Stiles lets up on him, arching from his hips up to his shoulders. He actually tips up onto the top of his skull for a second. Then he flops back, still groaning, as Stiles slides up and down his cock.

Peter hisses at him, but Derek doesn’t notice because Stiles has reached back and started rolling Derek’s balls between his fingers. Derek arches again, eyes squeezing shut and staying shut, and Peter’s gaze drops from Stiles to him. Goes from furious and nerve-wracked to furious, and then, just before the lust catches up and Peter slumps into the wall, biting his lip and trying to rub himself off against the tile, a tiny bit resigned.

“Yeah, because—because it was my fault. My fault, he didn’t want—rest of family found out, he didn’t want—” Derek gasps, head lolling. He talks like he’s sleep-talking, like the words are just heaving out of him as he seizes and shivers under Stiles. His hands wrap over his cuffs and he holds onto them like they’re a lifeline. “—keep them out—”

Then those abs of his contract sharply, and he pulls up and he’s hanging from the chain for a second. He’s forceful enough to lift his pelvis and Stiles off the floor, so Stiles’ knees slide freely, and then he goes limp. Falls back hard enough that his skull cracks into the floor, making Stiles hiss at the sound of it.

Sort of spoils Stiles’ climax, honestly. He has to jerk himself off the rest of the way, when it’d been building up perfectly, but he doesn’t want to end up with a dead guy’s cock stuffed up his ass. Definitely not a kink of his. Anyway, he leans over Derek, pulling at his cock, and when Derek blinks, Stiles comes as much in relief as anything else.

Derek blinks again. He’s breathing, but he’s so slack that his mouth is gaping open and is barely twitching with the flow of air in and out of it. Stiles bites down a couple choice words and reaches under the man’s head, feels around. Flesh is a little tender but there’s no warm wet spot, and Derek’s pupils are huge but they’re still the same size, though he’ll have to check that again later.

Very slowly, those pupils start to focus. He looks up at Stiles, still panting. It’s a little strange, that look. Kind of spacy calm. Not like the spacy you get with an injury, or with shock. More like the spacy you get when it’s just too many things all at once, and your mind decides that it’s just fucking done and you’re just going to…go with it.

Stiles gets off him. Goes and gets a towel, and then comes back and wipes Derek down. Derek starts to push himself up, turn over on his side and there’s a long exhale from the other corner of the bathroom. He looks over at that, then down at the floor, hissing a little as the towel goes between his legs, rubs at the come sticking over the shaved, sensitive skin.

His tattoo’s right in Stiles’ face that way, and Stiles can’t help but admire how it stretches and twists over the muscles. “I really like that,” he says without thinking. Then shrugs when Derek looks at him. “Kind of a shame they don’t go with that, you know. Could put another one lower down on your back, with the spirals curling around your ass. That’d be a nice mark, wouldn’t it?”

“Are you trying to talk me into it?” Derek says, and he’s smiling at Stiles. It’s all terrifying edges, that smile, and it’s glorious. “Kind of a waste of time. I’d do that.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says.

Derek tilts his head. He’s still smiling but it’s tightened a little. Concentrated. “Yeah. You’re strange, you know.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. He reaches over and grabs Derek by the jaw, then rubs his thumb across the man’s cheek. “But a piercing kit’s what I got. So—”

“Balls,” Derek says. He pauses, then turns his head into Stiles’ thumb. He doesn’t lick at Stiles’ hand like Peter probably would’ve; he just turns into the touch, looking at Stiles, very calmly, and spreads his knees. “Barbells. Don’t do rings.”

Stiles raises his brows. “Why not? And why—”

“Because you can feel barbells when I’ve got jeans on,” Derek says very straightforwardly. “Feel them a lot better than rings. I’m taller than you, you’d have to reach up for my nipples but for that you can just reach under and grab.”

“You’re trying to talk _me_ into it,” Stiles says, disbelieving. He’s about to back off, and then there’s a tiny hitch in Derek’s breathing, a crack in his calm, and that…makes Stiles feel a lot better. He considers it, then grins. Chucks his hand under Derek’s chin, then runs it over the man’s hair as he gets up. “Well, you were good, I guess I can take a request on this one.”

* * *

For the actual piercing, Stiles takes Derek out of the shower and lets him suck off Peter, who’s pretty desperate at that point, though he’s doing a good job of keeping his mouth shut. Stiles has a feeling that Derek’s going to be as offhand about that as he was about the shaving, and, well, Stiles’ throat is a little dry. He needs a drink before he can roll out another story.

He’s right: Derek takes his mouth off Peter’s cock and presses his head into his bound hands for a few seconds, right after the needles, but otherwise he just deals with it. Stiles almost wonders if he should’ve forgone the swipe of Novocaine he’d been indulgent enough to give the man.

Well, second thoughts and other things that Stiles trashed a long time ago. Besides, he’s also hungry. He’s done a lot, considering he hasn’t even had breakfast yet.

Stiles leaves the two of them in the bathroom till after the food’s been delivered, because _also_ , he feels like a hot meal. Once he’s got that set up in the dining room, he brings them out. Puts Peter and Derek on stools, hands cuffed behind their backs, legs cuffed to the stools so they’ll just tip if they try to get off. And sets them far enough apart so that they can’t knock together, facing each other.

“So, the whole dead family because of the Argents thing,” Stiles says, cutting into a pancake. “Now I’m curious.”

Derek’s gotten sullen again, and manages to figure out how to slouch while chained to a stool. Then again, he is keeping his thighs away from his ball piercings, so maybe that’s finally started to get to him. “Peter said you already knew about it.”

“Well, Peter says a lot of things, doesn’t he?” Stiles says, smiling. He hops off the edge of the table and goes up to the man in question, holding a forkful of pancake to his mouth.

It’s nice and syrupy, with fruit confit smeared over it. Peter looks at it like the food’s personally betrayed him, then sighs. “What do you want to know?”

Stiles lets him have the pancake bit first. “You said it started over a land dispute.”

“Yes, and I’d be happy to run through the hours of legal and technical details associated with that, but I don’t think you’d enjoy it very much.” Peter licks fruit confit off his lip, but it leaves a bright red stain. Seems like he can taste it, too, because he sucks his lip between his teeth for a second, then lets it out. Leans towards Stiles. “Unusual as your tastes are. I’m fairly confident on that one.”

“Are you,” Stiles says. He puts the fork down on the plate and then lifts his hand to just over Peter’s right nipple.

Peter’s nostrils flare as he inhales sharply. He’s still got food in his mouth and as time drags on, he abruptly swallows it, Adam’s apple bobbing roughly.

He inhales again when Stiles touches the ring hanging from that nipple, but Stiles just taps it lightly, then presses his palm flat against Peter’s chest, right under the ring. He slides it slowly down Peter’s belly, till it gets to Peter’s cock. And _that_ earns him a stifled whimper, even though he’s just bumped the head with the underside of his wrist. He’s not even touching the main part of it, but Peter twists on the stool like Stiles is torturing it.

“Sensitive?” And then Stiles does grab it. Nothing special, nothing even especially painful, just a firm grip around the base.

Peter’s shoulders shudder and flex as he tries not to rock the stool. “With what you’ve done to it over the past twenty-four hours?” he says. His sarcasm’s a little ragged. “I still have a pretty face, but I’m not exactly a teenager, Stiles.”

“Yeah, well, age is just a number, or so they say,” Stiles says. He pinches the side of Peter’s cock, then slides his hand under it. Leaves his thumb and forefinger to circle the base while he feels at Peter’s equally-sensitive—going by the sounds Peter is making—balls, rubbing and bumping them with the heel of his hand. “So how many more times before you start coming dry?”

“Stiles,” Peter half-spits, half-pleads. “Fine. Fine. It started back in nineteen twenty-three, with a drunk surveyor who couldn’t tell south southwest from east—”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles takes his hand off. He forks up a fresh piece of pancake and feeds it to Peter, who needs a moment to stop gasping before he can take it. “Skip forward, all right, why the hell would they burn your house down when they want the property? Arson or not, the investigation ties it up for a while, doesn’t it? And then you two pretending to be dead, when the best way to block them would be to pop up alive and claim—”

“It wasn’t really that, okay, it was—it was my mom,” Derek snaps. “Whatever the hell was the deal with the land, I think Gerard and she just hated each other. She paid this private investigator, what was his name—”

“Alan Deaton,” Peter murmurs.

“—he dug up a lot of shit on Gerard for the lawsuits, got him blackballed all over. So he just wanted to get Mom back,” Derek says. When Stiles goes over and offers him the pancake, he jerks his head to the side.

So Stiles tries the bacon instead, and Derek resists for a few seconds, then irritably opens his mouth. Takes a vicious bite out of it and chews it like it’s bone, staring at Stiles.

His pupils still look fine. “So he gets his daughter to burgle your place and set it on fire?” Stiles says.

Derek winces away. His knees spread slightly as Stiles reaches between them, and then Stiles actually has to grab his thigh to keep him from tipping the stool backwards. He snarls, isn’t grateful in the least, keeps twisting, and in the end Stiles grabs his balls as much to keep him from breaking his neck as to remind him what, exactly, they’re doing. Does not touch the piercings, but he’s close enough and the surrounding flesh, tender enough, that Derek flinches a last time and then stills.

“He got his daughter to seduce Derek there, so he invited her over for our annual reunion,” Peter sighs. He’s looking off to the side, and keeps looking, even after Stiles lets Derek go and walks over to him. His body tenses up, till Stiles’ hand is around his cock, and then it actually relaxes a little, as if the anticipation was the worst. “Yes, we all knew who she was. I think it was, what was it, Derek? Something about star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet? Bringing peace to the world?”

Derek doesn’t answer. Just stares at Peter as if he wants to murder the man, and also get down on his knees and hide his head in Peter’s lap.

Peter finally turns and looks at Stiles. They’re so close that Peter needs to tilt his head to keep their noses from running into each other. “Or it was the wonderful rack the beautiful, twentysomething Miss Argent had.” He smiles viciously. “Not going to find anything like that among your high school sophomores. Age _does_ count, sometimes.”

“So why weren’t you around? Seems like that’d be right up your alley, what with the statutory rape and bad blood and plain old drama,” Stiles says.

“Drama that I don’t cause is terribly boring,” Peter says, way too smoothly.

Stiles gives him a second. He just smiles, so Stiles sighs again. Runs his tongue around his mouth, makes sure he remembers where the antibiotic shots are stowed, and then bends down and sucks at Peter’s right nipple.

Peter’s cock goes half-hard just from that, pushing up into Stiles’ grip. Hissing, Peter makes a feeble attempt to wrench away, only to get a lot closer to knocking over the stool when he stops that, whimpering as Stiles tongues at the ring. Stiles grabs at the stool base with his free hand, then at Peter’s ass. He squeezes and digs roughly at a buttock, rolling his tongue-tip in and around and through the ring, teasing it just a little bit away from the nipple.

From the sound of it, Peter’s too busy moaning to get any words out. Derek hisses louder and louder, and then finally snaps, jerking on his stool so that the feet rattle over the floor. “Okay, okay, I’ll—stop, I’ll tell you, just—Stiles, I said I’d _tell_ you—”

For all Peter’s protests, his cock seems to think it can keep going just fine. It swells and stiffens, without so much as a stroke from Stiles’ fingers, just from Stiles’ mouth on the man’s nipple. Stiles does rearrange his hand so that he can get his fingertips on the pulse running through it, and when he thinks he feels that jump especially hard, he clamps down at the cock’s base.

Lifts his head. Watches Peter thrash in the air above him, head thrown back, mouth blindly sucking empty space. Peter shudders violently, swaying on the stool, and then catches himself heavily as he thinks he’s going to fall over. He almost overcorrects but jerks himself back just in time. Looks down, bleary and pained.

“He wasn’t there because he and Mom were fighting and—she threw him out. So she was already mad when Kate and I showed up. And goddamn it, Kate wasn’t—I wasn’t actually fucking in love with her. I just—she was nice, she was the only one being nice to me and I was—I was mad,” Derek spits out, barely coherent. “Because goddamn _Peter_ —”

Then he stops. He bites his lip, looking desperately at Peter for something. Some sign. Even utterly furious with the guy, Derek can’t help wanting Peter’s lead.

So Stiles looks at Peter, who’s managed to gather enough of himself to focus on Stiles. He’s surprisingly grim, just for a second, and then he shrugs carelessly, as if he isn’t breathing like an overworked horse. “Most of my family’s hated me at some point or the other,” he says. “I can’t really keep track of _everything_ I’ve done.”

“Hah,” Stiles says, and drops and sucks over the head of Peter’s cock.

He just works on the head. Just mouths it, sealing his lips around a spot and laving it with his tongue, then moving on. He finds precome, he rubs it into the skin before licking it off. He finds the slit, he nibbles its edges, holding onto Peter’s knee with his other hand to keep the stool jumping back. And it doesn’t matter, really, any of it, all of it, it’s driving Peter insane. Peter tries to bite it down, till he’s practically suffocating himself, and then he breaks. Shuddering, bent over Stiles’ head, trying frantically to shove his cock further into Stiles’ mouth.

Derek’s cursing Stiles out but good, but he’s not offering any information. He does jerk around that stool to the point that Stiles thinks he might just have to take the guy off, tie him to something else, but then Peter’s thigh goes steel tense under Stiles’ hand. And Stiles crushes down on the bottom of Peter’s cock again, keeping the man from coming.

He levers himself up with the help of Peter’s knee, standing over the panting, nearly sobbing man, and then curls his hand over the back of Peter’s neck. Probes a little at the bruised bites there, then hooks his fingers into Peter’s hair and pulls up the man’s head.

“Seriously?” Stiles says.

Peter tries to say something, can’t. He coughs wetly, tries to bend his shoulder so that he can wipe his face on it, but Stiles holds him back. He tries again, and gets out a thin rasp. “Talia, well—she didn’t approve of who I was seeing at the time.”

“And she threw you out for that, when Derek over here got to bring mortal enemy girl to the party?” Stiles says.

“I didn’t actually ask Mom if I could bring her,” Derek says. He’s furious with Stiles, but also frantic himself, panting almost like he’s got sympathetic exhaustion with Peter. “That was the point. Piss everybody off. Because—”

He can shut up but if he’s going to keep looking at Peter like that—it almost makes Stiles want to give the guy lessons in lying. But it’s not like Stiles really is that charitable, so instead he looks back at Peter. “Does this have to do with who you were seeing?”

“Derek’s never liked anyone I’ve ever dated.” Peter shrugs. “To be fair, his taste hasn’t been too stellar either, present company aside.”

Stiles laughs. He does, and then he steps up to Peter’s stool and hauls the man up straight. Takes Peter under the jaw, just as he pulls his other hand from Peter’s hair. It’s wet with sweat and that’s all the lube Peter gets as Stiles takes his cock and starts pumping it hard. Kisses the man at the same time, hard long kisses that stifle any chance Peter has of speaking, and that don’t leave a lot of room for breathing, either.

Peter keeps up for about ten seconds, and then he’s basically hanging from Stiles’ grip, in both places. He moans and moans and then he starts to whine, his hips jerking up off the stool. His lips and tongue try to push at Stiles, force him back, but Stiles just bites sharply into Peter’s lip. Gets the earlier tear, tastes fresh blood as Peter makes broken, small noises into his mouth, and then pulls back as Peter’s shudders start to peak.

Shaking his head, Peter almost manages to say something before he collapses against Stiles’ shoulder. He whimpers in relief, even as his body twists at Stiles, in agony from being denied again. And then, when his breathing’s started to slow, Stiles nudges up his head. Kisses Peter on the forehead as Peter stares blankly at him, then kisses him again. And starts sliding that hand up and down his cock.

“He was fucking my sister!” Derek snarls.

Well…yeah, Stiles is going to stop for that one. He’s barely started on Peter, but at this point Peter is so far gone that even that much is too much. Peter flops back into Stiles’ shoulder—he has to, if Stiles kept holding his head up he’d choke himself on Stiles’ hand—and then lets out a dragging sob into it. His shoulders are heaving hard enough that they might leave a few bruises on Stiles’ chest, when they’re done pushing into it. When Stiles pets the back of his head, he starts and then he noses deeper into Stiles’ shoulder, whimpering.

“Laura,” he rasps, right when Derek’s going to continue. “His—his older sister. Talia—well—”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can see how that gets you thrown out,” Stiles says.

“Both of us,” Peter mutters. He takes in a great gulp of air, and then wrenches his head up to where he can sort of look at Stiles. He’s completely wrung, can’t move an inch after that effort, but somehow he manages to be offended at the memory. “She was honest about that, anyway. We knew what we were doing, she and I both did, and Talia—couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take her own child telling her it wasn’t some bogeyman, it was just—what Laura felt like doing. _Who_.”

“It wasn’t serious, they were just being assholes together,” Derek says. And does not look at all ashamed of how he sounds. He just straightens up and stares straight back at Stiles.

Who raises his brows. “And what, with you, it was true love?”

Derek snorts. “When I was a teenager, maybe I thought that. I was dumb enough to go chasing after him and Laura. Left Kate by herself, so she—” his voice breaks a little, suddenly brittle and bitter “—she had the chance. But that—anyway, well, this is serious. Whatever the hell it is.”

Stiles turns back to Peter. Lifts his head up and looks him in the eye. “Really?”

Peter is going to feed him a line, says the twitching corners of the man’s mouth. And then Peter’s just going to lie, and _then_ Peter’s…tired. And maybe a little proud in spite of himself. He can’t hold up his own head and he’s still got that glint in his eye. Still can’t help getting Stiles interested.

“Really,” he says. “You get sentimental when you’re older, I suppose.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Stiles says. He props up Peter’s chin for another second, then tugs at it when Peter hisses, hitches up. Rubs his thumb lightly along Peter’s jaw. “Oh, shh, calm down, this is just going to be a moment, just—just yes, just a little—”

Rubs his other thumb up Peter’s cock, pushes in just under the head, so that Peter goes from panic to blind overwhelming arousal to collapse in a matter of seconds.

“—there,” Stiles says, letting Peter’s head back down onto his shoulder. He brings his hand up and looks at the fresh come on it, then wipes it off on Peter’s trembling arms. “Good.”


	4. Chapter 4

So Peter could use a rinse after that, that and some more ointment on his nipples. He’s just about conscious but for all practical purposes, he’s dead weight. Stiles rechains Derek so that he can lend a hand, and then ties Derek to the bed, since he’s not making this round playtime.

He also checks his messages. There are a couple new job offers, and one from Lydia: _coming in with baggage_. The tacked-on ETA gives Stiles a couple of hours.

Stiles thinks that over, then looks at Peter again. Then he shrugs. He takes off all the chains, and then drags Peter back to the bedroom and rolls him onto the mattress.

Derek had been up on his hands and knees immediately, and he scowls at Stiles like Stiles had bundled up Peter with Japanese knotwork or something, instead of freeing him. “Now what are you doing?” he says.

“Getting comfortable.” Stiles climbs up next to Peter, who’s semi-awake again, and who has just noticed that his hands are free. He props himself up against the headboard, next to where Derek’s hands are chained. “Don’t look so suspicious, Derek, I’m just being pragmatic. Tying him up now would just be because I can, not because he can do anything.”

Peter just about gets his head around to where he can look at Stiles. He doesn’t want to be on his belly but he can’t muster up the strength to do anything about it, to prove Stiles’ point. He does have enough to flick his eyes over to his wrists, where the fading red marks from the tape have been overlapped by slightly pink pressure marks from the cuffs.

“Yeah, yeah, you look good like that, and I like things that look good, not gonna lie,” Stiles says, laughing. “But seriously now. Why haven’t you two tried to buy me out, or anything like that?”

They both go very still. They’d talked that one over, clearly, hadn’t thought he was that stupid, but they probably figured they had more time. “We don’t have the money,” Derek says after a moment.

Stiles looks at him. “You can afford military-grade black market trackers, but you can’t afford a bid for a mercenary. Just how much money do you think Kate Argent was worth?”

“Not a small fortune, I see,” Peter says dryly. Both figuratively, and literally: his voice thins out at the end and his lips seem to stick together for a second.

Stiles gets off the bed and gets a glass of water. When he gets back on, he pulls Peter around and then up between his legs, so the man’s head is resting on his belly, the rest of him turned on his side and facing Derek. He decides to be patient this time, just tipping the glass against Peter’s mouth, a sip at a time, till the man wants to answer.

Two-thirds of the water disappears before Peter, shooting a reluctant Derek a hard glance, finally clears his throat. “Because as…testing as you are, you’re preferable to answering for a failed job.”

“We’re not hitmen,” Derek immediately adds, before Stiles can even look skeptical. “But we got—we ran into some people. They didn’t like the Argents either. And they didn’t like us, and they didn’t just want to team up, or anything like that.”

“Smugglers?” Stiles guesses.

Derek nods, his lips thin and tightly pressed together. “They figured they could use our history with the Argents, and didn’t bother asking how we felt about it. Just locked us up till we said okay. We weren’t even—they let us think each other was dead for a while, to get us to do that.”

Stiles mentally runs through the Argent file again. “The Alphas?”

Both Derek and Peter stiffen. Peter almost spills the water, and then looks a little disgusted with himself when Stiles pulls the glass away. He folds his lip under to suck it off, then glances up at Stiles. “You’ve heard of them.”

“Well, Jesus, you know, the sheer number of people who had hits out on Kate,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “Might not have been the most money ever, but I gotta say, I’ve never seen so many overlapping bids before.”

Derek swallows hard. He’s straining at his chains, enough to make them groan. “You—are you—are you working for them?”

Stiles glances at him and then at Peter, who’s equally still, and then back at him. “Nope.”

“Oh.” Blowing out his breath, Derek sinks back against the headboard. “Oh, good.”

“Good?” Stiles says. “Because, I don’t know, I feel like I need to be Captain Obvious and point out I’ve also got you locked up.”

“Yeah, but we sort of like you.” Then Derek grins. It’s the nasty one, where part of him honestly, unrepentantly still wants Stiles very bloodily dead. “The food’s a lot better.”

Stiles stares at him.

“For one,” Peter mutters, as if he’s just seen Derek accidentally get their getaway car towed. Then he moves his head up Stiles’ stomach. He smiles winningly when Stiles looks down, but underlying it is genuine, if very dark, amusement. “Two, because we think you like us. For your given value of like, Stiles, and yes, I realize we hardly know you. But let’s be honest, we were never all right, and neither of us much care at this point.”

“You’re weird,” Stiles says. He rubs his face, then lies back and puts his arms behind his head. That pushes up the gun holster under his arm, and he catches Derek looking at that. Grins at the man, who shrugs and pushes down the bed, so that he’s lying where he can lean over and lazily kiss Peter. “Hot, but weird. Also, carrying a shitload of baggage, and we’ve just gone through your history with one family. God knows what the hell else you’re hiding.”

Derek and Peter stop making out. Peter purses his lips, then looks up. He’s more serious this time. Doesn’t throw in any extra lip-licks or coy glances, and Stiles isn’t quite sure whether he’s just tired, or he’s learning.

“How badly does that bother you?” Peter asks.

Both, Stiles decides. He pulls down his hands and puts one on the back of Derek’s head, running it into the hair there. Straight and coarser than Peter’s, but just as thick and grabbable. Derek’s eyes narrow a little irritably but he doesn’t hesitate to tilt back into it.

The other hand scoops under Peter’s chin, pressing into the soft flesh behind the jawbone, where it’s quivering a little as Peter swallows slow and hard. “Because incest doesn’t seem to bother you, and neither do…a fair number of other things that would raise flags with others,” Peter adds. Very softly, but still very straightforward, no tease. “So I’m confused.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Stiles says, smiling at him. He rubs his thumb along Peter’s jaw and gets a little soft sigh, and then pats Peter on the cheek. “Were you worried that I’d flip out and shoot you over finding out you like keeping it in the family? After the shows you’ve been putting on, seriously? Is that why you were being so difficult?”

“Well, we also got our family killed,” Derek says. A little tightly, though he’s still leaning his head into Stiles’ hand. “Maybe that matters.”

Stiles has to give him that one. “Yeah, true. Things that get you killed and all. But nah, that doesn’t bother me. I get it now, it all makes sense. And you know, that’s one of the only things that really bothers me these days.”

Peter frowns. “When…things don’t make sense.”

“Because then I can’t figure out how to kill them,” Stiles explains. He leans back against the headboard and looks at them, then pushes off the bed.

He’s got Peter’s cuffs sitting right on the dresser, and in the time it takes for him to scoop up a set, Peter’s rolled over on his back, huffed in exhaustion, and then pushed onto his other side. Peter puts out his wrists with the kind of sigh you give when you get home and see a bill sticking out of the mailbox.

“For the record,” he says as Stiles chains him to the headboard. Very tired, under the casual tone. “We weren’t going to ask you to handle the Alphas for us.”

Not till they had a better idea of what Stiles wanted, Stiles translates. He doesn’t mind; that’s the sensible thing to do. “Nah, you were just going to see whether they’d come after you, and wait for who came out on top,” Stiles says.

Peter laughs sharply. “If you think they’d bother,” he says. He looks up at Stiles, then smiles with genuine ruefulness. “You don’t know them so well, then?”

“I think I have a pretty good idea already,” Stiles says. He pauses, then lets his hand drift over Peter’s arm as he straightens up. His fingers just graze a nipple ring and Peter sucks in his breath, pupils dilating as he stares up at Stiles. “And you. You’re awfully fond of the presumed dead routine, aren’t you?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Derek says. He pushes up as Stiles comes around the bed, trailing his hand over the sheets, and tenses as he realizes Stiles is going to reach between his legs. Then snorts. Relaxes, folds open his knees, and tips up his chin as Stiles dots a little ointment on his piercings.

Stiles shakes his head. “Well, that’d be hypocritical as hell of me, wouldn’t it?” he says. He grins at their sharpened interest, then waves it off as he turns away. “I need to do a little work around the house. Don’t presume each other dead, okay?”

* * *

Two hours later, Peter’s got enough strength back to walk. It’s wobbly and swaying, for all that nobody’s actually fucked him, but he makes it from the bedroom to the living room under his own power. Though he promptly collapses on the fur rug, as soon as he’s allowed.

Derek sits down next to him, then goes back up onto his knees, grimacing and twisting his hips to keep his piercings clear of the fur. They both stare a little blankly as Stiles unlocks their cuffs, then drops two stacks of clothes in front of them, followed by a set of car keys.

“They’re to the SUV down the road, not to your car. That’s over by the clubhouse. You might’ve missed them, but the road signs are pretty clear, you shouldn’t have a problem finding it,” Stiles says. He settles down on the couch on the other side of the rug with a case full of guns. Puts the case on the cushion next to him, then pulls over the coffeetable. Opens the case and starts breaking down and cleaning guns. “So that’s one option. Not a bargain, Peter. I don’t know what they teach in law school, but a bargain means both sides are offering something.”

The two of them stare at him for a couple minutes. Then Derek stares at the clothes and the keys. He didn’t miss the gun still tucked under Stiles’ arm, but generally his hostility’s gone down a lot.

Peter keeps looking at Stiles, even though he’s the one who eventually takes the keys. He absently jiggles them, then passes them to Derek and reaches for the clothes. They’re thin yoga-style pants and plain cotton tees, not street clothes by any measure, and won’t do if the pair of them get caught outside for more than an hour, but they’re good enough for driving off the retreat property.

“You’re not self-destructive,” Peter finally says. “So if we go, you’ll get us later—”

“Try to get us,” Derek mutters.

Stiles looks up from the detached slide stop. “Derek. I’ll get you.”

To which Derek just grins, because he’s not stupid but he is just a little bit bullheaded, especially where his pride’s concerned. He still thinks he can make Stiles work for it.

Well, Stiles won’t rule that out, because he, at least, tries not to fall into that trap. Anyway, as Peter says, if that’s how it goes, that’s later. Right now, Stiles has a gun to reassemble.

“As I was saying,” Peter says, with a quick glower at Derek. “Either you get us later, or…”

“Or look under the clothes,” Stiles says.

Derek sticks his hand under his stack, then pulls out the blindfold. Peter presses his lips tightly together, looking at it. Then lifts his clothes away and gingerly pokes at the second blindfold under it.

“You still need to get dressed,” Stiles adds, snapping a barrel and stock together. “I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.”

They look at each other. Derek cocks his head and Peter raises his brows. So Derek looks a little irritated, his jaw beginning to jut, and Peter just smiles. Leans over and kisses him, long and soft, his hand on Derek’s jaw while Derek sneaks both hands up into Peter’s hair.

When Peter draws away, he’s got the keys back from Derek. He sets those down on the table, deliberately clinking them together, and Stiles sighs and looks up and gives Peter that.

Peter doesn’t quite smile. He and Derek pick up the clothes, Derek starting with the shirt, Peter with the pants, and they get dressed. And then they blindfold each other.

And that’s when Stiles grins. He snaps a last part into place, watching Derek’s shoulders jump, Peter’s go tight. Then he puts the gun down. Reaches into the case again, gets out some non-gun tools.

He lays them down on the table, just as careful as Peter to have them make a little noise, and then he walks over to them. He did not put the cuffs on the table and he lets those dangle from his finger as he pushes them into place with one foot, on their knees with their hands behind their backs, their heads down. Checks that those blindfolds are on tight.

Stiles cuffs Derek first, because again, not stupid. Then Peter, and he lingers a little on the man, running his hand from the cuffs up Peter’s spine to the back of the neck. Gripping there, rubbing his fingers around the bite marks on Peter’s throat, leaning over to lip at Peter’s ear as he speaks.

“So Kate was for free, actually,” he says. He watches Derek’s head turn sharply towards them. Slides his fingers so that they’re digging under Peter’s jaw, making the man lift his head. “And yeah, I did her dad, too. That asshole killed my best friend, my dad, and honestly, pretty much anybody I gave a shit about, except for my girl Lydia. So me and her, we did a little training up. Got really good at this hitman thing. I guess it helps when you’re sort of sociopathic to begin with, and then somebody takes away all your moral compasses.”

Peter breathes in, doing it in two stages. A hard, fast suck, and then a slower, lower inhale. His head tilts back into Stiles’ fingers, even though they’re pressing hard at his throat. “You almost sound grateful,” he observes.

“I wouldn’t say that. More like…I don’t waste a lot of time thinking about what might have been. I’m what I am, and I like it.” Stiles pulls his fingers back, runs them through Peter’s hair. Then pulls on that, so that Peter gasps. “Kate actually wasn’t involved at all in my mess. We just ran across her after we did her father, and figured might as well tidy up a loose end. She’s kind of vengeful, you know.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. He’s curving his whole body now, trying to put his ear as close as possible without actually moving his legs.

“Anyway. That family, huh. Even their loose ends have loose ends,” Stiles says. He loosens his hold on Peter’s hair, just enough for the man to relax, and then takes the gun from his arm holster. Lets the tip chill the back of Peter’s neck as he leans down, and just catches the tip of Peter’s ear with his mouth as Peter flinches. “And you know what, Peter, I totally lied before. You are _such_ a gambler.”

He cocks the safety, pauses, then lets it snap again, just as he wrenches Peter’s head back up. Shakes his hand free of Peter’s hair and seizes his throat instead, and holds the shaking man for a long, deep kiss.

“Yeah, so,” Stiles says, putting his gun away. He absently strokes Peter’s throat; the man’s still swallowing over and over again, shivering against Stiles’ leg. “I think before we go, I’m gonna fuck you.”

“Fuck,” Derek says, his voice just as shaky as his uncle’s body. He’s slumped down so that his head is resting on the floor. “Fuck, fuck, _please_.”

* * *

Lydia shows up as Stiles has Peter bent over the coffeetable, just picking himself up after a damn good orgasm. She stops in the doorway, nose wrinkling, looking amazing in Dior something or the other, and then she comes in, shaking her head. There’s a woman behind her, tightly blindfolded, hands cuffed before her, with a death-grip on Lydia’s purse strap.

“Goddamn it, Stiles,” she says, putting her hands on her hips.

“Give me a break.” Stiles pulls carefully out of Peter, who coughs, then moans softly as Stiles presses two fingers up between his buttocks, pushing up the dribble of come and tucking it back into his ass. Then he reaches around, grabs the butt plug, and slides it into Peter. “You know you’re going to want to hit the ladies room and get a drink, and that’s a good ten minutes right there, before we even go into you touching yourself up for the road.”

He backs up and then bumps his foot into Derek, curled up on the floor, already fucked and plugged and trying very, very hard not to shift the erection tenting his pants against the table leg. Stiles gives Derek a pat on the hip and Derek lifts his head, turning it blindly back and forth, then drops it with a half-hearted curse. Peter moans again, attempting to pull himself off the table.

“I meant the _mess_ I just dealt with,” Lydia sniffs. She looks down disapprovingly as Stiles hauls Peter off the table by the shoulder, pulling the man’s pants up over his ass at the same time, and then sighs. “So those are Derek and Peter, right? Say hi to Laura.”

“Laura?” Derek’s head snaps up as much as it’s able.

The woman behind Lydia, who’d gone stiff as soon as she heard Peter moaning, is too jumpy to smile, but her voice is just slightly giddy. “Derek? Peter?”

Peter tries to push himself up against Stiles’ leg. Winces when Stiles pushes him off, because that’s making it too hard for Stiles to pull up his jeans, and then semi-collapses against Derek. “Laura? Laura—but how did you—”

“Did you massacre without me?” Stiles sighs.

Lydia crosses her arms, glowering. Her purse swings forward and Laura jerks with it, then lets out a bitten-off whimper; Laura has jeans and a loose, v-necked blouse on, and what Stiles initially took for a necklace is actually a chain coming out of the blouse’s neckline and going into Lydia’s purse. Probably her car keys, since Lydia’s constantly misplacing those.

“It’s not a massacre if you only kill one person,” Lydia says. She continues to glower as Stiles steps over Peter and Derek, right up till he kisses her cheek, grinning. Then she unfolds her arms and gives him a quick hug, making Laura whimper again. “Well, fine, we still have half an hour before the cleaners arrive, anyway. But I only got Kali, Stiles, so that leaves four of them. I want to get on the road and on them tonight, or else I’ll be late for—”

“Fashion Week, yeah, yeah, it’s blocked out on all my calendars and engraved on my heart,” Stiles says. 

He backs off and considers what to do first. Then settles on Peter. He likes Derek a lot too, really, but he got Peter first and that’s special. Or something. 

Anyway. Stiles gets Peter up on his knees, then cups his chin so the man doesn’t have to weave his head blindly around. “So hey, how do you feel about international shipping?” he says. Then laughs as Peter whines into his hand. “Kidding. I hate traveling like that. But come on, Peter, you heard her. We gotta hit the road. That’s a body each for me to fuck you and Derek over, and then I guess Lydia and I will flip for the last one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I was working some kinks out of my system. Also, I am a big fan of the movie _Grosse Pointe Blank_ , and the idea of Stiles as an assassin and Lydia as his handler was very appealing to me. Although this Lydia gets her hands dirty too, because I can't imagine her ever be willing to just be stuck behind a desk with a phone.


End file.
